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UNIVLRSITY  OF 
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SAN  DIEGO 


GU        I 


THE  LAND  OF 
HAUNTED  CASTLES 


LUXEMBURG    CITY 
Ancient  gate  on  the  road  to  the  City  of  Emperors 


THE  LAND  OF 
HAUNTED  CASTLES 

BY 

ROBERT  J.  CASEY 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH 
MANY  PHOTOGRAPHS 


"Dim   with   the    mist    of   years,    gray    flits 
the  shade  of  power.  .  .  ." 

— Byron. 


V**^ 


^,f^€<ff 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


To 
MARIE 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

I     Grimm  Reality i 

The  Case  of  Lady  Gretel 2 

II     Druid  and  Roman 13 

The  Ancestry  of  the  Fairies 14 

III  Ghosts 29 

Who  They  Were  and  Where  They  Came  From      .      .  30 

IV  The  Fairy  Melusine 49 

Peeping  Siegfroid  and  the  Mermaid  Godiva    ....  50 

V     Time's  Footprints 65 

A  Love  Eternal 66 

VI     Paths  of  Glory 75 

Royal   Purple 76 

VII     John  the  Blind 93 

The  Wandering  King  of  Bohemia 94 

VIII     Sword  and  Torch 109 

The  Emperor  Charles  Quint HO 

IX     The  Capital 139 

City  of  Cloak  and  Sword 14° 

X     Ansembourg 159 

The  Lady  of  the  Spinning  Wheel 160 

XI     Hollenfels 175 

The  Hollow  Rock  and  Its  Dream  of  Fair  Women     .      .  176 

XII     Marienthal 197 

The   Flying   Horseman 19^ 

XIII  Schoenfels         209 

The  Little  People 210 

XIV  Mersch  and  Pettingen 219 

Coffins   and   Centurions 220 

XV     Ettelbruck 233 

The  Bahnhof  and  a  Cinemadventure 234 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PACE 


CHAPTER 

XVI       VlANDEV 257 

The  Dice  of  the  Devil 258 

XVII     Dahnen         299 

The  Wise  Men  of  Gotham 300 

X\TII       ECHTERNACH 3^^ 

Where  Thousands  Dance  for  the  Glory  of  God     .      .  312 

XIX  A  Garden  of  the  Gods 33° 

The  Tale  of  a  Three-Legged  Cat 331 

XX  Brandenbourg 343 

The   Hunted   Huntsman 344 

XXI  Bourscheid 353 

The  Restless  Crusader 355 

XXII  EscH-suR-SuRE 363 

Ghost  Bells  in  Fairyland 364 

XXIII     Clervaux 377 

Et  Get  Fir  de  Glaf ! 378 

XXI\'     Beaufort 385 

The  Splendid  Romance  of  Jean  Beck 386 

,    XXV     Herringerburc 395 

The  Lady  of  the  Magical  \'oice 396 

XX\T     La  Rochette 407 

Four-and-Twenty  Blackbirds  Baked  in  a  Pie      .      .      .  408 

XX\TI     Christnach 423 

Swanhilde  and  the  Love  of  Rodoric 424 

XWIII     Pastels 431 

The  People  of  the  Toy-Kingdom 432 

XXIX     The  Firemen 445 

Guardians  of  Society      .  ^ 446 

XXX     Marriage 459 

l^he  Bride  and  Her  Garter 460 

XXXI     A  Famous  \'ictory 473 

We  are  the  Salt  of  the  Earth 474 

XXXII     The  End  of  the  Road 493 


Vlll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Luxemburg  City — Ancient  gate  on  the  road  to  the  City  of  Em- 
perors         Frontispiece 

Facing 

PAGE 

Luxemburg  City — In  this  spot  where  an  isolated  rock  arose  in  a  nar- 
row valley,  rival  empires  stubbed  their  imperial  toes  for  a  thousand 

years 17 

Luxemburg  City — Approach  to  the  Great  Rock  where  Siegfroid  and 

the  Fairy  Melusine  built  their  stronghold 32 

Luxemburg  City — The  Grand  Ducal  Palace.     A  relic  of  the  Spanish 

Occupation 53 

Luxemburg  City — Detail  of  the  old  fortification 60 

Luxemburg  City — At  the  foot  of  the  Bock 69 

Luxemburg  City — View  from   the  Bock — Looking   across   the   lower 

town  and  the  Viaduc  du  Nord 76 

Luxemburg  City — Road  from  the  Bock  to  the  Lower  City  showing 
part  of  the  fortifications  begun  by  Siegfroid  and  his  fairy  and  per- 
fected by  Vauban  for  Louis  XIV  of  France 97 

"New"  Chateau  Ansembourg — Main  entrance  of  the  Sixteenth  Cen- 
tury Chateau 112 

"New"  Chateau  Ansembourg — The  Garden 112 

Luxemburg  City — The  Lower  City 129 

Luxemburg  City — The  Suburb  of  the  Grand,  the  Upper  Town    .      .      129 

Chateau  Berg — The  Grand  Ducal  Country  Seat 144 

Old  Ansembourg — Where  the  "Lady  of  the  Spinning  Wheel"  wove 

the  wedding  gown  that  was  her  shroud 168 

Old  Ansembourg — From  the  Spinning  Wheel  Lady's  Window  View 

from  the  corner  tower  of  Old  Ansembourg i68 

HoLLENFELS — Windows  of  the  Chapel 177 

HoLLENFELS — Looking  from  the  Rampart 177 

HoLLENFELS — Altar — HoUenfels  Chapel 192 

HoLLENFELS — Salle  des  Chevaliers 192 

ScHOENFELS — From  the  rocks  of  the  Little  People 213 

Mersch — To  the  left  is  the  new  basilica,  in  the  center  the  spire  of  the 
ancient  church  that  was  built  upon  a  foundation  of  Prankish  coffins, 
to  the  right  the  square  tower  of  the  old  castle 220 

ix 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACING 
PAGE 


Ettelbruck — This  city  was  called  for  the  "Scourge  of  God,"  "Attila's 
Brid'^e."     It  is  a  "new  town"  without  great  interest  on  its  own  ac- 
count, but  the  meeting  of  the  valleys  in  which  lie  the  castles     .      .      245 
BouRSCHEiD — About  these  walls  rode  the  ghost  of  a  crusader  in  bat- 
tered armor.     He  ceased  his  vigil  when  Palestine  fell  to  the  British     252 
\'iANDF.N — It  defied  armies  and  the  elements  but  succumbed  at  last  to 

the  insidious  junk  man 261 

\'iANDEN — Outer   wall,   chapel   and   gables  of  the   immense   Salle   des 

Chevaliers -68 

ViANDEN — The  Watch  Tower 277 

\'iANDE>f — I'nderground   Passage 277 

\'iANDEN — Inner  Court 284 

^'IA^DEN — The  Double  Chapel 289 

\'iANDEN — Remains  of  Upper  Floor 289 

^'IANDE^' — Roman  Ovens 3<^4 

\'iANDEN' — Roman   Kitchens 304 

Marienthal — From  the  Precipice 321 

Marienthal — \'ale  of  Eternal  Tranquillity 321 

Br,\nden'bourg — Here  a  small  garrison  made  a  gallant  stand  against 
the  torchmen  of  Louis  XH' — and  strange  things  have  been  happen- 
ing ever  since 33^ 

Bourscheid — The  castle  was  one  of  the  strongest  in  the  duchy  but  was 
dismantled  by   Louis  XI\'   when  he   set   \'auban  to   strengthening 

the  works  of  Luxemburg  City,  inland  Gibraltar 357 

EscH-suR-SuRE — The  crusading  graf  hung  a  Saracen's  head  to  the 
ramparts  in  testimony  of  his  prowess  .  .  .  even  now  can  be  heard 
the  noises  of  the  men  at  arms,  the  clanking  of  heavy  armor  and 

the  jingle  of  chain-mail 364 

Beaufort — The  chateau  is  remarkable  chiefly  for  its  excellent  masonry. 
It    is    one    of   the    duchy's    finest    examples    of    medieval    military 

architecture 392 

Larochette — Above  the  town  on  its  high  rocks  sits  the  castle.  Much 
of  the  village  is  built  within  the  line  of  its  dismantled  outer  circle 

of  defenses 420 

From  the  Ramparts  of  Hollenfels — Hundreds  of  feet  above  the 

spot  where  the  toes  of  the  castle  crag  dip  into  a  little  river     .       .       .      465 

Luxemburg  City — German  artillery  in   retreat  through  Luxemburg 

City — November,   1918         480 

Luxemburg  City — The  German  retreat  of  November,  1918      .      .  480 


CHAPTER  I 
GRIMM  REALITY 


The  Case  of  Lady  Gretel 

The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

— Keats. 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 
CHAPTER  I 

GRIMM    REALITY 

GRETEL  passed  on  through  passages  of  crystal 
and  rooms  of  silver, — spacious  chambers, 
empty  and  silent.  Before  a  golden  door  she 
halted,  suddenly  afraid,  as  from  the  wall  to  the  right  of 
her  seven  crimson  birds  in  seven  wicker  cages  spoke  to 
her  in  solemn  warning:  "Turn  back,  turn  back,  there  is 
blood  on  the  ring." 

Thus  the  Brothers  Grimm,  those  great  historians  of 
human  imagination,  wrote  of  one  of  the  castles  that 
sprang  up  centuries  ago  between  Germany  and  France. 
Their  fairy  stories  of  princesses  captive  in  great  eagles' 
nests  of  rock,  of  enchanted  princes  buried  in  the  forgotten 
donjon-keeps,  delightful  though  they  have  been  to  every 
child  who  has  ever  learned  to  read,  have  never  been 
regarded  as  scientific  accounts  of  the  life  and  politics  of 
the  era  with  which  they  are  concerned.  They  are  fairy 
tales,  wholly  fairy  tales,  and  nothing  but  fairy  tales.  So 
of  course  no  one  believes  them. 

If  one  is  seeking  the  plain,  unvarnished  truth,  whether 
about  castles  or  cabbages,  he  must  go  to  an  unbiased 

3 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

source.  He  cannot  expect  facts  from  a  spinner  of  fairy 
tales.  Imagination  has  wrecked  more  than  one  scientific 
inquiry  before  now.  All  men  are  liars, — some  good,  some 
bad,  some  consciously  and  some  unconsciously.  Hence, 
the  ideal  informant  should  be  a  man  with  intelligence 
enough  to  remember  what  he  has  learned,  but  totally  lack- 
ing in  the  invention  that  would  add  untruthful  embel- 
lishments. 

The  Teutonic  peasant,  by  nature  as  patiently  dull  and 
unimaginative  as  the  great  over-developed  Belgian 
horses  that  he  follows  in  the  fields,  is  humanity's  closest 
approach  to  this  ideal.  He  is  intensely  practical,  as  any 
one  who  has  watched  his  careful  outlay  of  hard-earned 
marks  will  testify.  He  is  not  overburdened  with  intelli- 
gence, but  has  been  educated  in  very  efficient  grade 
schools,  has  heard  of  modern  progress,  is  acquainted  dis- 
tantly with  the  telephone,  more  closely  with  the  electric 
light,  has  traveled  a  little,  reads  the  provincial  news- 
papers, and  harbors  a  few  dim  political  opinions.  An 
average  twentieth-century  sort  of  person  he  seems  to  be, 
and  in  him,  if  anywhere,  should  be  the  truth. 

Under  the  crumbling  walls  of  a  medieval  stronghold 
he  hoes  his  potatoes,  a  perfect  copy  of  a  Millet  painting. 
He  was  brought  up  in  the  little  stone  house  down  the 
white  road, — the  one  under  the  beeches,  sir.  The  house 
is  older  than  the  memory  of  man.  The  peasant's  father 
lived  there,  and  his  great-great-grandmother,  and  before 

4 


GRIMM  REALITY 

her  other  ancestors  who  heard  the  artillery  and  saw  the 
torches  of  Louis  XIV. 

Can  he  tell  you  of  the  castle  ?  Of  course  he  can.  The 
history  of  the  country-side  is  at  the  tip  of  his  tongue : 

"It  was  an  accursed  castle,  sir.  It  was  built  by  Her- 
mann the  Strong  as  a  fortress  against  his  many  enemies. 
Here  came  the  Princess  Gretel  and  the  Prince  Siegfroid 
her  husband  for  shelter.  The  Prince  Siegfroid  was  a 
Frank,  sir.  He  looked  upon  Hermann  as  a  friend.  Which 
was  very  foolish.  The  Princess  Gretel  did  not  like  the 
place.  You  can  see,  sir,  that  it  was  large  and  rough.  She 
and  the  prince  were  quartered  in  that  old  north  tower 
that  now  makes  an  excellent  shelter  for  the  pigs. 

"There  were  strange  noises  in  the  castle.  Every  night 
the  wailing  of  a  woman  could  be  heard  above  the  moan- 
ing of  the  wind  in  the  crevices. 

"Hermann  laughed  at  them  and  said  that  prowling 
animals  from  the  forests  of  the  Ardennes  had  very  sorrow- 
ful voices.    Siegfroid  and  his  princess  were  reassured. 

"One  day  Siegfroid  went  out  to  hunt  with  Hermann 
and  failed  to  return.  A  party  of  horsemen,  retainers  of 
the  Baron  von  Alpenburg,  had  waylaid  them  and  Sieg- 
froid had  died  in  the  fighting.  So  Hermann  said.  And 
no  one  ever  knew  to  the  contrary.  I  would  not  venture  to 
state  the  opinion  that  perhaps  Hermann,  in  whose  eyes 
the  Princess  Gretel  was  very  beautiful,  had  accomplished 
the  killing  without  the  help  of  the  baron's  retainers. 

5 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Some  people  have  said  so.     But  there  must  always  be 
gossips. 

"The  princess  remained  at  the  castle.  After  a  time 
Hermann  consoled  her  and  asked  that  she  marry  him. 
She  agreed,  poor  thing.  What  else  was  there  for  her  to 
do?  The  date  was  set  for  the  wedding  and  the  engage- 
ment was  made  the  occasion  for  a  grand  celebration  in  the 
salle  des  chevaliers  of  the  castle. 

"Hermann  the  Strong  and  his  men-at-arms  were  very 
good  drinkers.  But  the  heady  vintages  of  the  Rhine  and 
Lorraine  flowed  like  water  and  by  midnight  all  of  them 
were  stretched  under  the  long  tables. 

"Gretel,  who  had  tasted  very  little  of  the  wine,  arose  to 
go  to  her  room. 

"She  passed  out  of  the  salle  des  chevaliers  to  another 
long  hall  that  used  to  stand  where  now  you  see  that  fer- 
tilizer tank.  Then  suddenly  she  heard  the  crying  woman 
again;  only  now  the  wailing  was  so  weak  that  it  scarcely 
could  be  noticed  among  the  noises  of  the  wind.  She  fol- 
lowed it  toward  an  iron  door. 

"A  voice  within  her — a  very  strange  thing  it  was, 
sir, — seemed  to  call  out  to  her  to  look  at  the  ring  that  had 
been  given  her  by  Hermann  the  Strong.  She  removed  it 
and  became  sick  at  heart. 

"There  was  blood  on  the  ring,  sir.  It  is  hard  to  be- 
lieve, nowadays,  that  such  things  could  happen. 

"She  opened  the   iron  door.     It  was   very  terrible. 

6 


GRIMM  REALITY 

There  before  her  was  a  dungeon.  In  it,  chained  to  a 
wall  and  dying  from  a  sword  cut  over  her  heart,  was  a 
woman.  It  was  the  wife  of  Hermann  the  Strong,  sir. 
He  had  been  forced  to  get  rid  of  her  before  his  second 
wedding-day  because  even  in  those  times  one  wife  was 
enough  for  a  man  and  a  monk  had  told  him  that  the  curse 
of  God  would  punish  bigamy. 

"Gretel  fled.  But  it  was  winter-time  and  she  died  from 
exposure  in  the  woods  yonder.  They  say  that  even  now 
the  wailing  of  the  wife  of  Hermann  the  Strong  and  the 
cries  of  the  princess  who  died  trying  to  escape  him  can  be 
heard  about  these  ruins.    A  strange  story,  is  it  not,  sir*?" 

So  speaks  the  simple  twentieth-century  peasant,  paus- 
ing in  his  narrative  as  an  automobile  siren  interrupts  him 
from  the  road  at  his  right  and  a  shrill  locomotive  whistle 
sounds  across  the  fertile  valley.  So  is  heard  the  voice  of 
unbiased  history  speaking  through  the  lips  of  this  edu- 
cated modern.  It  is  as  consistent  as  if  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  should  rise  up  in  his  pulpit  to  expound  the 
theological  truth  of  Ovid's  metamorphoses. 

The  case  of  the  Princess  Gretel  is  not  an  exaggeration. 
Admitted  that  she  is  a  mythical  character  introduced  here 
for  the  first  time  on  any  stage.  But  she  is  typical.  So  is 
the  whole-souled  man  with  the  hoe  who  tells  of  her.  Her- 
mann the  Strong  is  no  more  romantic  a  figure  than  Henry 
the  Red,  who,  in  the  depths  of  Vianden,  has  been  shaking 
dice  for  centuries  to  save  his  soul  from  the  devil.    Gretel 

7 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

is  in  no  detail  more  fanciful  than  the  White  Lady  of 
Beaufort.  The  whimsical  philosophy  that  provides  the 
motive  for  the  slaying  of  Hermann's  wife  is  no  more  over- 
drawn than  is  the  explanation  of  the  miraculous  escape 
of  the  Flying  Horseman  of  Marienthal. 

You  may  shape,  you  may  fashion  a  man  as  you  will, 
but  somewhere  back  in  his  cranium  is  a  sneaking  liking 
for  fairy  tales,  with  its  accompaniments,  a  fear  of  the 
supernatural  and  a  belief  in  ghosts. 

There  will  always  be  folk-tales.  And  there  will 
always  be  folks  engaged  in  manufacturing  new  ones. 
There  will  always  be  vivid  dreamers, — and  a  market  for 
Ouija  boards. 

Many  a  Poilu  knows  that  Napoleon  came  back  to  save 
France  at  the  first  Battle  of  the  Marne.  An  equal  num- 
ber saw  the  shade  of  Joan  of  Arc  at  Verdun.  As  the  years 
give  imagination  time  to  mellow,  the  actual  spots  where 
they  appeared  will  be  charted  and  tourists  will  be  taken 
to  them,  for  a  price.  Maimed  veterans  will  tell  how  they 
saw  the  apparitions  and  a  future  generation  will  learn 
that  troops  of  lancers  in  chain  mail  turned  back  the  Ger- 
man horde  before  Paris  and  that  it  was  not  the  "seventy- 
fives,"  but  the  ghosts  of  the  guns  that  failed  at  Waterloo 
that  stopped  the  rush  on  the  Meuse. 

We  need  not  wander  so  far  afield.  The  legends  of  our 
own  Catskills,  resting-place  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  are 
diversified  enough  to  have  suited  even   the   Brothers 

8 


GRIMM  REALITY 

Grimm.  We  used  to  have  a  number  of  cases  of  diabolical 
possession  in  New  England;  and  it  was  only  yesterday 
that  a  New  York  woman  rode  in  her  own  automobile  to 
a  prosaic  police  court  to  charge  a  neighbor  woman  with 
witchcraft. 

Where  there  has  been  history  there  is  certain  to  be 
legend.  Fairy  tale  follows  fact  as  an  echo  trails  the  blast 
of  a  trumpet.  The  louder  the  trumpet,  the  greater  the 
echo.  The  more  picturesque  and  romantic  the  historical 
incident,  the  more  strangely  fascinating  and  more  gen- 
erally accepted  the  folk-lore. 

It  is  only  natural  that  there  should  be  haunted  castles 
in  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Luxemburg.  It  is  the  most  beau- 
tiful country  in  northern  Europe.  It  has  been  the  home 
of  a  dozen  races,  the  battle-ground  of  a  score  of  wars.  It 
has  been  for  a  thousand  years  a  sort  of  great  Chinese  wall 
between  two  powerful  ententes.  The  bones  of  Roman 
legionaries  have  given  calcium  to  its  soil.  The  sar- 
cophagi of  crusaders  are  in  its  gray-green  churches.  Its 
people  carry  in  their  blood  an  atavistic  stoicism  in  the 
presence  of  death,  fortified  by  a  practical  faith  in  a  life  be- 
yond the  grave.  And  the  past  intrudes  itself  upon  them 
subconsciously  in  the  thousand  mysterious  relics  that 
cling  to  the  crags  in  successful  defiance  to  time  and  the 
elements. 

Through  Luxemburg  swept  the  Goths,  the  Visigoths, 
and  the  Huns,  the  Romans,  the  Belgae,  the  Franks,  the 

9 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Gauls,  the  Spaniards,  and,  more  recently,  the  Dutch,  the 
Germans,  and  the  French. 

The  people  lived  on  the  brink  of  a  sort  of  military 
volcano  that  erupted  periodically  and  with  dire  results. 

Sword  and  fire,  pestilence  and  famine,  and  the  con- 
stant influx  of  rival  races  over  one  frontier  or  the  other  by 
turns  decimated  and  reinforced  the  population.  Its  na- 
tional language  swung  from  one  dialect  to  another.  Its 
racial  characteristics  changed  with  each  succeeding  epoch 
of  wars.  That  is  the  price  a  people  must  pay  if  they  live 
on  the  highway  between  two  mighty  forces. 

Sometime  shortly  after  Tubal  Cain,  or  whoever  it  was, 
pounded  out  the  first  sword,  Luxemburg  became  the 
strategic  center  of  Europe,  the  gateway  by  which  the 
tribes  of  the  half-starved  North  and  East  might  enter  the 
fertile  fields  of  the  South  and  West,  and,  since  a  gate 
swings  two  ways,  a  similar  convenience  for  the  men-at- 
arms  of  Southern  conquerors. 

It  was  across  the  old  Luxemburg  that  the  troops  of 
Kaiser  Wilhelm  II  passed  into  Belgium  and  thence  to 
France.  Through  Luxemburg  marched  the  great  tides  of 
feldgrau  that  cast  up  a  flotsam  of  death  on  the  beach  of 
war  at  Verdun. 

Once  Luxemburg  city,  the  capital,  was  a  stronghold 
conceded  to  be  as  impregnable  as  Gibraltar.  Lesser  fort- 
resses— grim,  imposing,  rom.antic — look  down  with  ma- 
jestic aloofness  from  every  peak  of  rock,  at  the  head  of 

lO 


GRIMM  REALITY 

every  canon.  Age  has  not  lessened  their  grandeur  nor 
dimmed  their  glamour.  If  ghosts  must  walk  the  earth, 
they  could  find  no  spot  on  the  globe  where  their  appear- 
ance would  be  more  natural,  or  better  understood. 


11 


CHAPTER  II 
DRUID  AND  ROMAN 


The  Ancestry  of  the  Fairies 

The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day. — Shakespeare. 


CHAPTER  II 

DRUID  AND  ROMAN 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  say  just  when  the  fairies  came 
to  Luxemburg.  They  seem  always  to  have  been 
there,  like  the  rocky  hills,  the  wars,  the  robber 
barons,  and  the  other  products  of  the  Ardennes  soil. 
Many  of  the  country's  legends  bear  the  stamp  of  Druidic 
origin.    Some  hark  back  to  the  priests  of  Baal. 

The  relics  of  the  Celts  are  strewn  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land,  strewn  more  numerously  and  with 
greater  abandon  at  the  points  where  the  race  came  into 
close  contact  with  the  better-armed  Teutons.  The  sacri- 
ficial stones  of  the  Druid  priests,  oriented  after  the  fash- 
ion of  the  ruins  of  Stonehenge,  the  blood-vats,  imperish- 
able adjuncts  to  human  sacrifice,  have  stood  through  the 
ages,  grim  guardians  of  the  mysteries  of  haunted  woods. 
Temples  of  Diana  and  Venus  are  in  the  glades  hard  by 
the  shrines  of  Christian  saints.  It  is  hardly  remarkable  in 
view  of  this  evidence  of  religion  conquering  religion  and 
race  succumbing  to  race,  that  legend,  folk-tale,  philoso- 
phy, and  creed  should  have  become  inextricably  inter- 
twined in  the  minds  of  the  people. 

If  some  one  were  to  tell  us  that  the  woods  at  Diekirch 
echoed  nightly  with  the  shrieks  of  sacrifice  and  that  the 

15 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ghost  fires  of  forgotten  priestcraft  still  glowed  among 
the  crags,  we  might  find  it  hard  to  disbelieve.  For  to  a 
civilized  mind  it  would  seem  that  poetic  justice  is  lacking 
in  the  world  if  the  barbaric  horrors  of  the  Druids  can 
ever  die. 

That  the  ghastly  curse  of  them  remains  upon  the 
country-side  where  they  were  wrought  seems  easily 
credible. 

There  were  people  in  Luxemburg  prior  to  the  coming  of 
the  Celts,  of  course,  but  what  sort  of  savage  existence  they 
led  can  only  be  imagined.  They  bequeathed  to  posterity 
few  records  of  their  regime  save  in  the  catacombs  of  the 
dwarfs  at  Schoenfels  and  in  the  crude  weapons  and  im- 
plements of  an  early  stone  age  uncovered  at  widely  sep- 
arated points  in  the  Ardennes. 

The  Celts — or,  more  properly,  the  Gauls — were  a  high- 
minded  race  of  killers  who  probably  had  some  virtues. 
All  that  is  known  of  them  does  not  combine  to  produce 
any  great  sorrow  that  they  have  vanished.  They  were 
only  a  short  distance  removed  from  the  animals  that 
furnished  them  with  food  and  clothing,  and  in  disposi- 
tion the  animals  appear  to  have  had  the  better  of  the 
comparison. 

The  Gauls  sprang  from  the  same  Aryan  stock  as  the 
Teutons,  but  the  Teutons  sprang  farther. 

Tacitus  in  his  annals  makes  it  appear  that  the  Ger- 
manic tribes  were  little  brothers  of  the  Angels, — honest, 

16 


K   >; 


X 


DRUID  AND  ROMAN 

intelligent,  and  chaste;  great  warriors,  and  souls  of  a 
marvelous  simplicity.  It  has  been  pointed  out  by  inter- 
ested persons  that  Tacitus  was  something  of  a  politician, 
and  might  have  attributed  all  attainable  virtue  to  the 
Teutons  by  way  of  proving  that  Rome  under  certain  ad- 
ministrations had  dropped  some  distance  from  the  funda- 
mental civilization  of  savagery.  It  has  been  hinted  that 
the  Germanic  tribes  were  but  little  different  from  the 
Gauls  and  that  both  of  them  were  stupid  beasts.  His- 
torical light  on  the  subject,  unless  we  are  prepared  to  take 
the  bull's-eye  illumination  of  the  ardent  Tacitus  himself, 
is  very  dim.  i 

But,  judging  the  two  tribes  by  the  result  of  their  coali- 
tion, it  appears  that  the  Teutons  had  a  better  start  toward 
culture  than  had  the  Gauls.  They  defeated  the  Gauls. 
Hence  it  appears  that  they  were  better  armed  or  better 
trained. 

They  founded,  through  the  amalgamating  process  that 
always  followed  such  conquests  in  the  dawning  of  the 
world,  the  sturdy  races  of  Europe, — intelligent  and 
strong,  simple,  religious,  basically  good.  The  descend- 
ants of  the  Gauls  and  the  Teutons,  despite  their  continu- 
ous wars,  displayed  little  of  the  savagery  of  either  of  their 
progenitors.  For  the  most  part  they  were  peaceable, 
kindly,  and  Christian,  content  to  till  their  fields  and  live 
in  peace  and  amity  with  their  neighbors.  Professional 
armies  did  the  fighting.     The  bulk  of  the  people,  save 

17 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

those  of  the-  invaded  countries,  knew  of  wars  only  as 
vapue  rumors  were  brought  to  them  by  passing  travelers 
and  were  for  the  most  part  unaffected  by  them,  until  the 
atavistic  debacle  of  1914  which  plunged  civilization  to  its 
neck  in  blooiiy  horror. 

Europe  had  traveled  a  long  way  from  the  Gauls  before 
it  reached  the  Marne.  And  then  it  suddenly  returned  to 
them,  doubly  terrible  in  the  sacrifice  of  its  acquired  ideals. 
It  is  significant  that  the  Teutonic  strain  which  built  up 
the  old  world  was  the  influence  that  attempted  to  tear  the 
structure  down. 

The  Celts,  lacking  tools  and  brains  and  the  other  requi- 
sites of  building,  lived  in  caves  or  rude  huts  or  in  skin 
tents  or  under  the  open  sky.  But  despite  their  losing 
struggle  with  the  housing-problem,  they  left  one  notable 
contribution  to  the  architecture  of  medieval  Europe. 

It  is  a  noticeable  fact  that  a  reed  wall  will  not  stop  a 
man-eating  bear,  nor  serve  long  as  a  barrier  to  a  hungry 
wolf.  And  there  were  many  such  animals,  none  of  them 
too  well  nourished,  in  the  Ardennes.  Blasting-powder 
was  then  several  eons  still  in  the  future,  as  was  cement. 
Masonry  was  an  art  undreamed  of.  Ordinary  ingenuity 
that  might  have  made  use  of  the  rocky  chips,  or  the 
boulders  that  afterward  were  incorporated  into  the  outer 
cinctures  of  the  castles  was  lacking.  But  a  spark  of  in- 
vention glowed  dimly  behind  the  low  brow  of  the  Gaul. 
He  discovered  that  bears  and  wolves  and  their  ilk  got 

18 


DRUID  AND  ROMAN 

into  difficulties  immediately  they  stepped  off  of  dry  land. 

Of  this  observation  was  born  the  mardelle.  The  mar- 
delle  was  the  ancestor  of  the  moated  castle  and  was  about 
ninety-nine  per  cent.  moat. 

It  was  an  artificial  lake,  a  deep  pit  perhaps  fifty  yards 
wide,  in  the  center  of  which  a  hut  was  built  on  stilts. 
Here  the  first  ladies  of  the  lake  could  go  boating  or  fish- 
ing or  even  bathing  without  fear.  At  night  the  overlord 
of  this  castle  was  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  purling  of  the 
waves  under  the  floor  of  woven  willow  and  the  baying  of 
disappointed  wolves  upon  the  shore. 

Traces  of  the  mardelles  still  are  to  be  found  in  the 
valley  of  the  Sure.  They  went  out,  probably,  when  the 
tyrannical  Druids  were  overthrown  and  the  remnants  of 
the  Gauls  learned  to  make  metal  tools  and  to  use  the  other 
materials  that  favored  permanent  construction. 

The  Gauls  appear  to  have  been  an  easy-going  race, 
fairly  good-natured  and  agricultural,  fierce  fighters  in 
their  way,  but  lacking  the  genius  for  planning  the  mob 
warfare  of  their  day  and  the  stamina  for  prosecuting  it. 
The  Teutons,  their  neighbors,  were  less  tractable.  For 
all  their  varied  virtues  as  set  forth  by  the  enthusiastic 
Tacitus,  they  were  monomaniacs  and  bloodshed  was  their 
obsession. 

Just  what  refining  influence  may  attach  to  war  has  not 
yet  been  made  clear,  but  ethnologists  agree  that  the  Gaul 
in  his  pastoral  simplicity  was  one  of  the  most  naturally 

19 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

peaceful  and  most  woefully  ignorant  creatures  of  which 
history  has  any  record.  Casar  ascribes  to  him  a  shocking 
immorality  transcending  in  bestiality  even  the  polyandry 
of  the  South  Sea  islands.  The  Roman  in  his  commen- 
taries declares  that  whole  communities  lived  under  one 
roof  and  shared  their  women  in  common,  and  other 
writers  whose  opinions  have  been  based  more  or  less  upon 
hearsay  describe  the  life  of  the  Gaul  as  one  long  orgy  of 
sexual  excess. 

In  justice  to  the  reputation  of  these  little-known  sav- 
ages it  might  be  well  to  present  in  passing  a  different  pic- 
ture of  their  habits  as  painted  by  Winwood  Reade. 

Reade,  who  attempted  to  make  out  a  case  for  the 
Druids,  and  more  particularly  the  forgotten  ancestors  of 
the  British  race,  finds  the  Gauls  to  have  been  quite  as 
lovable  creatures  as  the  Teutons  of  Tacitus.    He  says : 

They  feared  nothing,  these  brave  men.  They  sang  as  they 
marched  into  battle  and  perhaps  to  death.  They  shot  arrows  at 
the  heavens  when  it  thundered;  they  laughed  as  they  saw  their  own 
hearts'  blood  gushing  forth. 

And  yet  they  were  plain  and  simple  in  their  manners;  open  and 
generous,  docile  and  grateful,  strangers  to  low  cunning  and  deceit, 
so  hospitable  that  they  hailed  the  arrival  of  each  fresh  guest  with 
joy  and  festivities,  so  warm  hearted  that  they  were  never  more 
pleased  than  when  they  could  bestow  a  kindness. 

Their  code  of  morals,  like  those  of  civilized  nations,  had  its 
little  contradictions;  they  account  it  disgraceful  to  steal  but  honor- 
able to  rob,  and  though  they  observed  the  strictest  chastity,  they 
did  not  blush  to  live  promiscuously  in  communities  of  twelve. 

20 


DRUID  AND  ROMAN 

This  extraordinary  custom  induced  Caesar  to  assert  that  they  en- 
joyed each  other's  wives  in  common;  but  in  this  he  is  borne  out  by 
no  other  authorities,  and  indeed  there  are  many  instances  of  this 
kind  among  barbarous  nations,  who  love,  apparently,  to  hide  their 
real  purity  under  a  gross  and  filthy  enamel. 

Richard  of  Circencester  (probably  alluding  to  Bath,  the  aquae 
solis  of  the  ancients)  mentions,  however,  some  salt  and  warm 
springs  used  by  the  ancient  Britons,  from  which  were  formed  hot 
baths  suited  to  all  ages,  with  distinct  places  for  the  two  sexes;  a 
refinement  which  was  unknown  in  Lacedoemon. 

And  Procopius  writes: 

"So  highly  rated  is  chastity  among  these  barbarians  that  if  even 
the  bare  mention  of  marriage  occurs  without  its  completion,  the 
maiden  seems  to  lose  her  fair  fame." 

So  much  for  the  morals  of  the  Gaul.  Concerning  his 
other  characteristics  there  seems  to  be  less  controversy. 
Reade  declares  that  the  Rritish  Celts  were  so  inquisitive 
that  they  would  compel  travelers  to  stop  and  exchange 
gossip  with  them  and  listen  with  rapt  attention  to  mer- 
chants who  appear  to  have  been  the  ancestors  of  town 
criers. 

The  strain  of  credulity  that  was  the  Gaul's  remains  in 
the  modern  nations  that  he  fathered, — a  credulity  that 
under  some  conditions  makes  for  a  trustfulness,  frank- 
ness, and  honesty  far  removed  from  the  savage  faith  that 
was  born  of  ignorance. 

If  some  antiquarian  some  day  can  read  in  the  oriented 
ruins  about  Diekirch  and  Vianden  and  Echternach  the 
story  of  the  religion  that  the  sons  of  Noah  established  on 

21 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  European  continent,  he  will  be  able  to  produce  a 
book  of  surpassing  interest  and  worthy  of  preservation 
so  long  as  the  art  of  reading  shall  endure.  A  number  of 
instincts  inbred  in  the  white  races  of  the  world  to-day  are 
directly  traceable  to  Druidic  influence.  And  no  archi- 
tects of  human  destiny  are  shrouded  in  deeper  mystery 
than  these  same  Druids. 

Reade,  after  a  study  of  the  ruins  and  folk-lore  of  Stone- 
henge  and  Wales,  advances  the  belief  that  the  Druids 
were  the  offspring  of  the  Hebrew  patriarchs.    He  says : 

They  worshij^ed  one  God,  and  prayed  to  him  in  the  open  air; 
and  believed  in  a  heaven,  in  a  hell  and  in  the  immortality  of  the 
soul. 

It  is  strange  that  these  offsprings  of  the  patriarchs  should  also 
be  corrupted  from  the  same  sources  and  should  thus  still  preserve 
a  resemblance  to  one  another  in  the  minor  tenets  of  their  polluted 
creeds. 

Those  pupils  of  the  Eg}'ptian  priests,  the  Phoenicians,  or 
Canaanites,  who  had  taught  the  Israelites  to  sacrifice  human  beings, 
and  to  pass  their  children  through  the  fire  to  Moloch,  infused  the 
same  bloodthirsty  precepts  among  the  Druids.  As  the  Indian  wife 
was  burnt  upon  her  husband's  pyre,  so  on  the  corpses  of  the  Celtic 
lords  were  consumed  their  children,  their  slaves,  and  their  horses. 

And  like  other  nations  of  antiquity,  the  Druids  worshiped  the 
heavenly  bodies  and  also  trees,  and  water  and  mountains  and  the 
signs  of  the  ser|:)ent,  the  bull  and  the  cross. 

As  far  as  we  can  learn,  however,  the  Druids  paid  honors  rather 
than  adoration  to  their  deities,  as  the  Jews  revered  their  archangels 
and  reserved  their  worship  for  Jehovah.  .    .    . 

The  Druids  [x>ssessed  remarkable  powers  and  immunities.  Like 
the  Levites,  the  Hebrews  and  the  Eg}'ptian  priests  they  were  ex- 

22 


DRUID  AND  ROMAN 

empted  from  taxes  and  military  service.  They  also  annually  elected 
the  magistrates  of  the  cities.  They  educated  all  children  of  what- 
ever station,  not  permitting  their  parents  to  receive  them  until  they 
were  fourteen  years  of  age.  Thus  the  Druids  were  regarded  as  the 
real  fathers  of  the  people. 

The  Persian  Magi  were  entrusted  with  the  education  of  their 
sovereign ;  but  in  Britain  the  kings  were  not  only  brought  up  by  the 
Druids  but  relieved  by  them  of  all  the  odium  and  ceremonies  of 
sovereignty. 

These  terrible  priests  formed  the  councils  of  the  state,  and  de- 
clared peace  or  war  as  they  pleased.  The  poor  slave  whom  they 
seated  on  a  throne,  and  whom  they  permitted  to  wear  robes  more 
gorgeous  even  than  their  own,  was  surrounded  not  by  his  noblemen 
but  by  Druids.  He  was  a  prisoner  in  his  court  and  his  jailors  were 
inexorable,  for  they  were  priests. 

There  was  a  chief  Druid  to  advise  him,  a  bard  to  sing  to  him, 
a  sennechai,  or  chronicler  to  register  his  action  in  the  Greek  char- 
acter, and  a  physician  to  attend  to  his  health  and  to  cure  or  kill  him 
as  the  state  required. 

.  .  .  The  Druidic  precepts  were  all  in  verses  which  amounted 
to  20,000  in  number  and  which  it  was  forbidden  to  write.  Con- 
sequently a  long  course  of  preparatory  study  was  required  and  some 
spent  so  much  as  twenty  years  in  a  state  of  probation. 

These  verses  were  in  rime,  which  the  Druids  invented  to  assist 
the  memory,  and  in  triplet  form  from  the  veneration  which  was 
paid  to  the  number  three  by  all  the  nations  of  antiquity. 

Concerning  the  weird  ceremonials  of  these  strange 
priests  virtually  nothing  is  known.  Some  of  their  magic 
has  been  preserved  to  posterity  by  tradition,  but,  as  is 
usual  in  such  cases,  it  is  the  outlandish  fairy  tale  that  has 
survived  rather  than  an  authentic  history  of  customs. 
Reade  cites  the  case  of  the  "serpent's  egg"  : 

23 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

It  was  supposed  to  have  been  formed  by  a  multitude  of  serpents 
close  entwined  together  and  by  the  frothy  saliva  that  proceeded 
from  their  throats.  When  it  was  made  it  was  raised  up  in  the  air 
by  their  combined  hissing,  and  to  render  it  efficacious  it  was  to  be 
caught  in  a  clean,  white  cloth  before  it  could  fall  to  the  ground — 
for  in  Druidism  that  which  touched  the  ground  was  polluted.  He 
who  performed  this  ingenious  task  was  obliged  to  mount  a  swift 
horse  and  to  ride  away  at  full  speed  pursued  by  the  serpents  from 
whom  he  was  not  safe  until  he  had  crossed  a  river. 

The  Druids  tested  its  virtue  by  encasing  it  in  gold  and  throwing 
it  into  a  river.  If  it  swam  against  the  stream  it  would  render  its 
possessor  superior  to  his  adversaries  in  all  disputes  and  obtain  for 
him  the  friendship  of  great  men.  .   .   . 

The  eggs  were  made  of  some  kind  of  glass  or  earth  glazed  over, 
and  are  sometimes  blue,  green  or  white,  and  sometimes  variegated. 

There  is  a  peculiar  custom  at  Vianden.  On  Easter 
Sunday  it  is  customary  for  a  courted  maiden  to  give  her 
swain  an  egg.  If  it  be  dyed  black  he  knows  without 
further  explanation  that  his  suit  is  dismissed.  No  one  in 
Vianden  knows  where  the  custom  originated,  but  the  egg 
that  rendered  a  man  superior  to  his  adversaries  and  the 
egg  by  which  a  maiden  betokens  her  freedom  of  choice 
seem  somehow  related.  And  Vianden  was  once  a  center 
of  Druid  worship. 

The  Druids  vanished  from  Luxemburg  as  other  inhabi- 
tants of  the  Ardennes  had  vanished  before  them.  They 
succumbed  to  the  superior  forces  of  the  Romans  in  Gaul 
as  they  did  in  Britain.  And  new  conquerors  and  new 
deities  came  to  occupy  the  narrow  valleys. 

Such  traces  of  prehistoric  life  as  have  been  excavated 

24 


DRUID  AND  ROMAN 

in  the  Ardennes  tend  to  show  that  the  Luxemburg  district, 
by  every  characteristic  of  topography  suited  to  be  a  buffer 
between  the  tribes  of  the  Rhine  and  the  tribes  of  the 
Seine,  was  always  an  independent  unit.  It  was  not  always 
independent  in  the  sense  that  it  was  autonomous,  but  in 
defeat  or  victory  it  preserved  its  identity. 

The  Scourge  of  God  with  his  seven  hundred  thousand 
barbarians  swept  down  out  of  the  North,  leaving  his 
calling-card  in  the  name  of  Ettelbruck  (Attila's  bridge) 
Hunsdorf,  Hunswold,  etc. 

The  Vandals,  the  Goths,  the  Franks,  and  the  Visigoths 
carried  the  merciless  warfare  of  their  times  across  the 
country-side,  leaving  upon  the  people  the  indelible  im- 
press of  oppression  and  miscegenation. 

With  the  Romans  came  a  new  mythology  that  kept 
alive  the  native  superstitions  even  in  the  process  of  civil- 
ization. That  the  inhabitants  of  the  country  about  Lucil- 
inburhuc  took  kindly  to  education  and  the  arts  is  evi- 
denced in  the  monuments  of  that  era  which  survived  the 
destructive  influences  of  poverty,  the  elements,  a  dozen 
wars,  and  the  greed  of  conquerors.  Treves  a  thousand 
years  ago  was  more  populous  than  it  is  to-day, — the  cen- 
ter of  a  densely  settled  community.  It  is  obvious  that 
modern  housing  and  living-conditions  alone  made  such  a 
city  possible. 

Roman  roads,  built  by  Luxembourgeois  under  the  engi- 
neers of  Caesar  and  Julian,  are  still  the  principal  passage- 

25 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ways  across  the  Ardennes.  Traces  of  Romanesque  pot- 
tery have  been  discovered  in  the  ruins  of  native  kilns  to 
the  north.  The  names  of  Roman  goddesses  are  decipher- 
able on  the  foundation  stones  of  crumbling  altars,  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  duchy. 

The  Romans  pass  on  and  the  old  traditions  are  pre- 
served and  new  ones  manufactured  by  a  new  group  of  dic- 
tators operating  a  new  system,  of  civilization. 

The  castles  and  the  feudal  system  may  be  said  to  be 
developments  from  the  same  source. 

Chaos  came  with  the  decaying  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
Although  new  conquerors  arose  and  flashed  briefly  across 
the  historical  firmament,  the  control  of  the  rulers  over 
their  scattered  subjects  became  looser  and  looser.  Armies 
were  recruited  and  the  law,  such  as  it  was,  administered 
through  the  nobles.  And  the  nobles  through  centuries 
of  despotic  rule  found  themselves  the  overlords  of  petty 
kingdoms. 

They  built  the  castles  as  fortresses  rather  than  homes 
and  fought  hundreds  of  wars  too  insignificant  to  find  a 
place  in  history  but  of  terrible  moment  to  the  Rhine  coun- 
try and  the  illustrious  Ardennes. 

Every  district  had  its  private  king.  Every  king  had  his 
own  battle  preserves  and  resented  any  incursions  by  his 
neighbors  into  the  zones  where  he  reserved  the  right  of 
pillage,  murder,  and  loot. 

People  gathered  naturally  under  these  robber  barons 

26 


DRUID  AND  ROMAN 

for  the  protection  which  they  despaired  of  getting  from 
the  vague  authority  of  an  emperor  or  real  king.  They 
may  not  have  enjoyed  serfdom  and  its  obbligato  of 
hard  labor  with  few  comforts,  but  the  system  had  points 
of  superiority  over  private  enterprise  in  competition  with 
the  numerous  destructive  forces  that  made  life  a  burden 
for  one  who  was  prosperous.  The  serf  did  n't  own  the 
land  that  he  tilled,  and  his  recompense  was  slight,  but 
usually  he  got  three  meals  a  day;  and  in  rural  Luxem- 
burg, which  is  prosperous  if  any  section  of  Europe  may  be 
called  prosperous,  he  gets  but  little  more  out  of  the  free 
and  enlightened  life  of  to-day. 

Serfdom  is  born  in  the  peasant.  His  love  of  liberty 
and  intense  patriotism  may,  after  all,  be  merely  an  atavis- 
tic instinct  of  rebellion, — the  urge  of  the  iron-collared 
slave  against  the  yoke  of  a  feudal  master,  outcropping 
in  the  slave's  descendant.  Human  nature,  if  we  may 
judge  from  the  evidences  of  all  the  epochs  that  are  trace- 
able in  Luxemburg's  rocky  hills,  has  changed  but  little  in 
two  thousand  years.  Old  ideas  remain,  old  stories  are 
told,  and  old  ghosts  walk  abroad  in  the  land. 


27 


CHAPTER  III 
GHOSTS 


Who  They  Were  and  Where  They  Came  From 

The  knight's  bones  are  dust,  and  his  good  sword  rust; 
His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust. — Coleridge. 


CHAPTER  III 

GHOSTS 

ANY  study  of  history  here  must  necessarily  be 
sketchy, — a  brief  page  or  two  from  a  chronol- 
ogy that  details  in  the  story  of  a  toy  nation  the 
entire  progress  of  the  human  race,  from  bloody  savagery 
to  cultured  modernity.  But  some  of  it  is  necessary.  Only 
in  the  understanding  of  the  stock  from  which  the  castle 
ghosts  are  sprung  can  one  appreciate  the  immortality  with 
which  long-accepted  tradition  has  endowed  them. 

Ghostly  itself  is  the  history  of  Luxemburg, — ghostly 
and  ghastly, — with  a  past  peopled  by  strange  races  first 
cousins  to  the  characters  of  the  piquant  myths  that  are 
their  sole  bequest  to  the  unimaginative  present,  with  a 
modern  existence  unalterably  linked  with  the  destinies  of 
the  world. 

Luxemburg  at  present  comprises  998  square  miles  of 
territory  and  about  a  quarter  of  a  million  inhabitants. 
At  the  time  of  its  greatest  glory  it  was  but  little  larger. 
But  for  centuries  it  has  been  the  axis  about  which  the 
affairs  of  Europe  have  turned.  It  has  been  as  definite  an 
influence  in  the  life  of  Americans  as  was  Plymouth  Rock. 
For  America  sprang  from  Europe  and  the  threads  of  fate 

31 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

that  governed  the  formation  of  European  racial  stock 
were  spun  in  the  Ardennes. 

For  thirteen  hundred  years  before  Rome  was  built,  stood  Treves; 
may  it  stand  in  |)eace  forever. 

Thus  read  an  inscription  in  Latin  upon  a  house  in  the 
ancient  city  of  emperors.  If  it  may  be  accepted  at  face- 
value,  it  is  an  indication  that  in  this  region  Rome  built 
her  civilization  upon  the  foundations  of  a  civilization 
that  had  gone  before.  Treves  remains  to-day,  despite  the 
zeal  of  German  archaeologists  who  have  obilterated  its  ro-. 
mantic  connections  with  the  mysterious  past,  a  bit  of  Italy 
hundreds  of  miles  and  dozens  of  centuries  out  of  place. 

Here  as  ever  comes  legend. 

It  is  said  that  the  city  was  founded  by  Trebeta,  stepson 
of  Semiramis,  Queen  of  Assyria.  But  the  native  imagi- 
nation, which  does  not  hesitate  to  describe  the  color  of 
Satan's  cloak  or  give  a  name  to  any  lost  soul  that  moans 
among  the  crumbling  rocks  of  a  castle  ruin,  is  silent 
when  called  upon  to  tell  more  of  this  story  of  how  Treves 
came  to  exist. 

Wliether  Trebeta  brought  with  him  sufficient  Assyr- 
ians to  found  a  colony  or  merely  impressed  upon  the 
nomads  of  the  vicinity  the  force  of  his  leadership,  is  as 
unexplainable  as  his  coming  itself.  The  tribe  that  in- 
habited the  lands  adjacent  to  Treves  was  known  as  the 
Treviri,  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  the  tribe 
was  named  after  the  city  or  the  city  after  the  tribe. 

3^ 


« 


o 


GHOSTS 

That  is  something  for  the  historian  to  worry  about;  and 
he  will  have  his  share  of  worry,  for  there  are  no  written 
records  to  lend  him  aid.  Not  until  Julius  Csesar  of  facile 
pen  and  ready  strategy  came  into  the  land  with  the  eagles 
of  Rome  does  the  actual  story  of  Luxemburg  and  its  en- 
virons emerge  from  its  slim  chapters  of  conjecture  into  the 
more  enduring  passages  of  a  great  egotist's  military  note- 
book. 

"Omnia  Gallia  divisa  est  in  partes  tres." 

So  begin  the  commentaries.  So  begins  the  history  of 
the  haunted  castles  and  the  men  who  made  them. 

Caesar's  mention  of  the  bravery  of  some  of  the  Gallic 
tribes,  particularly  of  the  Belgae,  whose  habitat  was  north- 
ern Luxemburg  and  Brabant,  indicates  that  the  melting- 
pot  had  been  in  potent  operation  some  generations  before 
he  tested  its  product  with  battle-ax  and  lance.  The  war- 
like Teuton  already  had  left  the  imprint  of  his  prowess 
upon  the  Celts,  stirring  them  from  their  laziness,  be- 
queathing to  them  his  stamina  and  his  will.  The  Gauls 
of  Caesar's  day  were  tribes  of  fighting-men  whose  accom- 
plishments upon  the  battle-field  are  better  judged  by  the 
Romans'  pains  to  subdue  them  than  by  the  half-praises 
grudgingly  given  them  in  the  commentaries. 

The  proprietorship  of  the  illustrious  Luxemburg  was 
divided,  at  the  time  of  Caesar's  coming,  between  the  Trev- 
iri  on  the  south  and  east  and  the  Eburones  on  the  north 
and  west.     The  line  dividing  their  domains  is  clearly 

33 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

defined,  geographically  and  ethnologically.  It  traverses 
the  table-land  between  the  Alzette  and  Sure  rivers  and  is 
dotted  along  its  entire  length  with  villages,  the  names  of 
which  end  in  "scheid,"  which  signifies  a  divide  or  a  part- 
ing. 

For  all  that  they  were  sprung  from  the  same  stock,  the 
Treviri  and  the  Eburones  did  not  get  along  too  well  to- 
gether. The  Eburones  were  a  Gallic  tribe  and  made  no 
bones  about  it.  The  Treviri  were  intensely  proud  of 
their  Teuton  ancestry  and  refused  to  be  classed  with  the 
Celts,  who  were  their  cousins.  Caesar,  looking  upon  them 
with  an  eye  unbiased  by  any  ancestral  pride,  classifies 
them  as  Gauls. 

The  wily  Caesar  was  quick  to  recognize  the  advantages 
that  might  come  to  him  through  the  attitude  of  the 
Treviri  toward  their  neighbors. 

After  the  de.".th  of  Indutiomar,  his  implacable  enemy, 
he  declared  the  Treviri  to  be  a  free  people.  The  extent 
of  their  "freedom"  was  problematical.  For  there  were 
always  sufficient  legions  in  Gaul  to  maintain  a  proper 
respect  for  the  Roman  eagles  should  occasion  arise.  But 
the  compliment  was  accepted  at  face-value  by  the 
Treviri.  Although  their  leaders  had  been  divided  in  the 
debate  over  whether  it  might  not  be  better  to  fight  the 
Romans  than  aid  them,  and  though  many  a  young  man  of 
the  Trevirians  had  lost  his  life  in  maintaining  one  side  or 
another  of  that  unsettled  issue,  the  declaration  of  free- 

34 


GHOSTS 

dom  was  followed  by  a  prompt  and  unanimous  alliance 
with  Rome.  If  credulity  was,  as  has  been  said,  one  of  the 
outstanding  characteristics  of  the  ancient  Celts,  this 
Roman  alliance  alone  would  seem  to  place  the  brand  of 
Gaul  upon  the  Treviri. 

They  paid  Caesar  for  the  compliment  he  had  bestowed 
upon  them.  They  fought  for  him  in  his  invasion.  They 
arrayed  themselves  against  Pompey  at  Pharsalia.  They 
became  an  integral  factor  in  the  Roman  military  estab- 
lishment. 

And  this  brought  them  a  new  reward.  They  were  ad- 
mitted to  Roman  citizenship,  with  new  rights  to  bear 
arms  for  Rome.  They  functioned  ornamentally  as  well 
as  usefully  in  the  Praetorian  Guard  and  even  sent  a  few 
of  their  number  to  the  senate.  Treves  became  a  Roman 
colony  and  the  Ardennes  region,  the  forest  Arduenna  of 
Caesar's  commentaries,  became  a  sort  of  distant  suburb 
of  Rome. 

The  products  of  Belgica — notably  the  smoked  pork  of 
the  Ardennes — became  famous  in  Rome.  The  vineyards 
of  the  Moselle  entered  into  successful  competition  with 
those  upon  the  slopes  of  Italy.  Ardenne,  the  conquered, 
was  preparing  to  undo  its  conquerors  by  supplying  them 
with  luxuries. 

Then  Caesar  fell  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  pillar. 

Augustus,  who  did  not  understand  the  Belgae, — or, 
if  he  did,  rated  them  too  low  to  warrant  consideration, — 

35 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

steadily  decreased  their  privileges  and  drove  them  into 
revolt.  They  were  crushed.  And  more  liberties  disap- 
peared in  the  crushing. 

There  came  Claudius  Civilis  and  the  Batavian  revolt. 
The  Bructerian  witch,  a  necromancer  of  great  power  and 
deep  divination,  is  said  to  have  caused  the  uprising. 
Dead  Gauls  counseled  the  ferocious  thrust  against  the 
Roman  yoke  and  after  that  there  were  more  dead  Gauls  to 
bear  them  company. 

The  Romans  stayed  on  and  what  privileges  the  Belgae 
received  were  those  that  the  Romans  chose  to  give  them. 

The  foundations  of  Luxemburg  were  receiving  a  firm 
grounding  in  the  ashes  of  defeat.  The  Gallo-Teuton 
races  of  the  district  were  being  purified  with  a  new  rea- 
gent, fortitude.  Love  of  country  had  a  real  meaning  for 
them,  for  it  is  notable  among  peoples  of  a  Celtic  strain 
that  oppression  solidifies  them.  Civilization,  acquired 
unconsciously  from  their  conquerors,  was  fitting  them  for 
a  role  in  the  world's  affairs. 

From  the  second  to  the  fourth  century  Rome,  with  no 
new  worlds  to  conquer,  turned  its  attention  to  the  better- 
ment of  the  peoples  already  under  its  control.  Treves  at 
this  time  came  to  the  height  of  its  glory, — a  place  remark- 
able for  its  museum,  its  baths,  its  amphitheater,  the  palace 
of  Constantine,  and  the  Porta  Nigra.  Military  roads 
were  constructed  between  the  numerous  fortresses  and 
camps  built  by  the  Romans  at  the  high  tide  of  their  inva- 

36 


GHOSTS 

sion.  One  ran  from  Treves  to  Rheims,  past  the  great  rock 
that  was  to  furnish  the  site  of  Luxemburg  city.  Arlon, 
Namur,  Cologne,  and  Metz  were  linked  with  broad  high- 
ways, the  same  roads  that  carried  the  bulk  of  the  German 
advance  against  France  nearly  two  thousand  years  later. 

Vast  stores  of  Roman  relics — accoutrements,  house- 
hold utensils,  temple  requisites,  and  coins — found  their 
way  into  rubbish-piles,  one  day  to  be  excavated  and 
counted  as  treasure-troves.  One  realizes  that  the  big 
copper  medallions  of  the  period  might  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  carry  about.  At  any  rate,  the  soldiers  apparently 
attached  little  value  to  them,  for  they  have  been  found 
in  quantities  wherever  there  are  traces  of  military  en- 
campments. Hundreds  of  them  have  been  unearthed  in 
the  moat  about  the  ruins  at  Pettingen,  leading  archaeolo- 
gists of  the  grand  duchy  to  believe  that  these  walls  are 
among  the  oldest  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  Roman  legions  themselves  revolted  in  263  and  the 
Ardennes  woods  were  full  of  petty  imperators.  Chrokus 
came  with  a  band  of  Suevi,  Franks,  and  Alemanni,  set- 
ting a  style  in  murder,  rapine,  and  pillage  that  was  little 
improved  upon  by  the  sundry  and  divers  barbaric  chief- 
tains who  followed  the  Romans.  Aside  from  this  incur- 
sion, which  resulted  in  the  taking  off  of  whole  villages, 
the  century  closed  without  incident. 

The  amphitheater  at  Treves  was  put  to  use  by  Constan- 
tine,  it  is  reported,  in  the  red  execution  of  several  thou- 

37 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

sand  Prankish  prisoners.  But  they  were  Franks  and 
did  n't  count.  The  star  of  Rome  was  setting  in  a  crimson 
sea. 

The  French  nation  got  a  foothold  upon  the  continent 
of  Europe  in  419  through  combinations  of  Frankish  tribes 
that  forced  recognition  from  the  tottering  empire. 

Some  thirty  years  later  Asia  the  great  and  mysterious 
let  loose  a  terrible  plague,  the  Hun, — half  a  million  of 
him, — the  original  militarist,  pushing  European  civiliza- 
tion toward  the  Atlantic  with  fire-brand  and  scimitar.  At 
Chalons,  fated  spot,  he  was  driven  back.  The  retreat  of 
this  bloody  savage  was  almost  as  efficient  in  the  creation 
of  chaos  as  the  work  of  the  men-at-arms  of  cultured  Euro- 
pean nations  that  only  a  few  years  ago  marched  into  Flan- 
ders in  his  age-old  tracks. 

A  few  years  later  the  Empire  of  the  West  came  to  the 
end  that  had  been  in  sight  for  a  century.  The  Germanic 
tribes  of  the  Northeast  moved,  sometimes  like  a  sluggish 
stream,  sometimes  like  a  hurricane-driven  flood,  across 
Luxemburg,  toward  the  Meuse.  The  peoples  of  the 
West  swung  back  against  them. 

The  Franks  of  Brabant  spread  out  unopposed,  embrac- 
ing the  Meuse,  the  Scheldt,  and  lower  Germany.  Lux- 
emburg, incorporated  as  part  of  the  Province  of  Austrasia 
under  the  Merovingian  dynasty,  became  a  dim  entity  for 
the  first  time  in  written  history  and  was  ruled  by  a  count, 
whose  authority  appears  to  have  been  problematical. 

38 


GHOSTS 

Yet  the  Franks  occupied  no  great  place  in  the  scheme 
of  the  world's  development.  They  were  brilliant  fight- 
ing-men for  their  times,  brave  and  intelligent.  But  they 
lacked  internal  unity  and  leadership.  They  percolated, 
rather  than  conquered,  the  territory  that  Julius  Caesar 
wrested  from  the  Gauls  by  bloody  strategy.  How  far 
they  might  have  gone  had  the  Germanic  tribes  not  been 
engaged  in  their  own  business  at  the  time,  can  only  be 
guessed.  Before  real  opposition  had  developed  against 
them  there  arose  Clovis,  one  of  the  greatest  plunderers 
of  all  time. 

In  his  own  bailiwick  he  had  reduced  the  ancient  and 
honorable  profession  of  assassination  to  an  exact  science. 
As  a  youth  he  succeeded  to  the  leadership  of  the  Salian 
tribe  in  Batavia  and  displayed  a  talent  for  intrigue,  poli- 
tics, and  war  that  could  not  but  be  recognized.  His  first 
notable  act  was  the  coalition  of  his  own  forces  with 
those  of  his  neighbor  and  relative  Ragnacaire  for  a  cam- 
paign against  the  Roman  Patrician  Syagrius,  who  ruled 
at  Soissons. 

Syagrius  fled  for  protection  to  Alaric,  King  of  the  Visi- 
goths, but  Clovis  was  nothing  if  not  persistent.  He  as- 
tonished even  his  own  followers  by  threatening  to  drive 
down  through  what  is  now  France  and  take  the  Roman  by 
force  of  arms, — a  large  order  for  the  captain  of  a  nonde- 
script troop  of  half-trained  axmen.  But  Alaric,  peace- 
able when  he  saw  nothing  to  be  gained  by  war,  turned 

39 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

over  his  guest  to  the  gentle  Clovis,  who  promptly  exe- 
cuted him. 

There  is  a  legend  still  current  in  Luxemburg,  where 
Clovis  is  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  chief  factors  in  the 
determination  of  the  duchy's  racial  individuality,  that 
the  Bishop  of  Rheims,  St.  Remi,  was  indirectly  responsi- 
ble for  the  quick  growth  of  his  power. 

In  the  looting  of  Syagrius's  domain  a  vase  of  great  size 
and  beauty  was  taken  by  the  Franks  from  the  church  at 
Rheims.  St.  Remi,  who  had  been  on  good  terms  with  the 
young  king,  requested  that  this  portion  of  the  plunder 
at  least  be  restored.  When  the  division  of  the  spoils  was 
begun  at  Soissons,  Clovis  claimed  the  vase,  "over  and 
above  the  share  apportioned  to  him  by  lot."  All  his  fol- 
lowers agreed  except  a  surly  lieutenant,  who  had  coveted 
the  vase  himself.  He  promptly  struck  the  vase  with  his 
battle-ax,  shouting:  "Thou  shalt  have  naught  but  what  is 
given  thee  by  the  lots." 

Clovis  took  the  insult  with  a  forbearance  remarkable 
even  in  one  so  good-humored.  Some  months  later  he  held 
an  inspection.  When  he  came  to  the  warrior  who  had 
smashed  the  vase  he  commented  impartially  upon  the  con- 
dition of  his  lance  and  battle-ax,  observing  that  in  all  his 
years  as  a  military  leader  he  had  never  seen  any  equip- 
ment quite  so  foul  and  unfit  for  service. 

He  jerked  the  man's  ax  from  his  grasp  and  threw  it  on 

40 


GHOSTS 

the  ground.  As  the  warrior  stooped  to  recover  it,  Clovis 
raised  his  own  ax  and  split  his  skull. 

"This  is  for  the  Soissons  vase,"  he  observed.  After 
that  implicit  discipline  was  one  of  the  characteristics  of 
his  army. 

Clovis  afterward  became  a  Christian  and  was  baptized 
at  Rheims,  but  he  does  not  seem  to  have  allowed  his  Chris- 
tianity to  interfere  with  his  other  business.  Other  Frank- 
ish  tribes  joined  his  standard  and  he  carried  out  his  threat 
to  push  down  through  Gaul.  He  defeated  Alaric  and 
was  halted  in  his  attempt  to  dominate  the  whole  of 
Europe  only  through  the  intervention  of  Theodoric  the 
Great  of  Italy. 

He  left  to  the  Merovingians,  his  successors,  all  Gaul, 
from  western  France  to  the  Rhine,  and  a  number  of  the 
Alps  provinces. 

The  Franks,  however,  experienced  the  fate  of  the  vari- 
ous hordes  that  have  conquered  China.  They  were  ab- 
sorbed. Their  Germanic  language  could  not  supersede 
the  Latin  that  was  Europe's  heritage  from  the  Roman 
dynasty.  Little  by  little  was  evolved  that  softened,  sim- 
plified Latin,  the  Lingua  Franca,  whence  in  the  ninth 
century  came  French  as  we  know  it  now. 

But  about  Treves,  and  in  the  Moselle  region  generally, 
tongues  and  tonsils  were  more  suited  to  the  Teuton  idiom 
that  Roman  teaching  never  quite  succeeded  in  displacing. 
Germanic  names  and  Germanic  root-words  remain  to- 

41 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

day  as  they  were  when  the  Teuton  tribes  first  put  their 
impress  upon  the  country. 

The  Franks  were  primarily  fighters.  Their  arts  were 
military.  Their  epics  they  carved  out  of  nations  with 
sword  and  battle-ax.  The  nomadic  impulses  of  their 
Asiatic  forebears  were  in  their  blood  and  the  open  country 
was  their  home. 

The  traces  of  the  Merovingians  in  Luxemburg  are  prin- 
cipally graves.  Nominally,  at  least,  the  Franks  were  a 
Christian  people  and  they  gave  their  dead  a  Christian 
burial  not  unmixed  with  the  pious  practices  of  an  instinc- 
tive paganism. 

Their  departed  brothers  in  arms  were  laid  in  vaults 
in  coffins  of  wood  or  stone.  The  rows  of  graves  in  their 
cemeteries  ran  north  and  south  and  the  dead  were  placed 
in  them  with  their  feet  to  the  east.  This  custom  was 
Christian  or  Druidic,  depending  upon  the  motive  which 
prompted  it.  Combined  with  the  orientation  of  the  dead 
was  a  ceremonial  founded  upon  a  pagan  belief  that  the 
life  to  come  would  be  merely  a  recurrence  of  the  present, 
— a  place  or  state  of  warfare,  pillage,  love,  and  feasting 
on  a  sublimated  scale.  So  the  dear  departed  Frank  went 
to  his  last  resting-place  with  a  complete  equipment. 

This  necessitated  the  building  of  large  coffins.  Even 
in  the  largest  of  the  stone  boxes,  the  corpse  was  cramped 
by  the  drinking-horns,  armor,  shields,  lances,  and  what 
not  piled  in  beside  it.    With  such  mortuary  relics  Luxem- 

42 


GHOSTS 

burg  is  strewn  from  end  to  end.  The  duchy  in  parts  is 
underlaid  with  a  sort  of  giant's  tiling  of  stone  caskets. 

Frankish  inability  to  digest  what  it  had  devoured  re- 
sulted in  due  time  in  the  division  of  Europe  into  Aus- 
trasia,  or  Austria,  whence  developed  Germany,  and  Neus- 
tria,  the  cocoon  of  modern  France.  There  were  numer- 
ous dissensions  and  reunions  on  the  part  of  the  Merovin- 
gian rulers,  but  it  was  not  until  the  latter  part  of  the 
eighth  century  that  the  great  Frankish  empire  once  more 
became  a  tangible  unit.  This  time  the  coordination  was 
effected  by  Austrasian  princes.  They  sent  their  "mayors 
of  the  palace"  to  Soissons  as  their  personal  representa- 
tives. The  mayors  of  the  palace  in  time  furnished  royal 
stock  for  new  empire. 

There  were  many  such  princely  agents  chosen  from  the 
Moselle  district.  One  may  be  mentioned,  Pepin  of  Her- 
istal. 

Pepin  remembered  the  place  of  his  origin.  In  his  work 
for  the  revival  of  the  old  Frankish  nationalism  and  the 
Christianizing  of  the  pagan  tribes  beyond  the  Rhine,  he 
found  time  to  bestow  favor  upon  the  region  from  which 
he  had  sprung.  There  he  built  his  hunting-lodges  and 
magnificent  country  seats  and  opened  an  era  of  prosper- 
ity for  the  Luxemburg  region  that  continued  during  the 
reigns  of  Charles  Martel  and  the  great  Charlemagne. 

Christianity  had  been  readily  accepted  in  the  Pagus 
Mosellanus  when  the  cross  of  Constantine  replaced  the 

43 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

eagle  as  the  standard  of  Rome.  The  peculiar  blending  of 
Teuton  and  Celt  had  developed  a  race  by  instinct  adapt- 
able to  Christian  tenet, — homely  folk,  simple  and  con- 
scientious. The  gods  of  Rome,  that  tribe  of  deified  pas- 
sions and  impassioned  deities,  were  received  as  an  im- 
provement upon  Druidism;  and  so  they  were,  as  voodoo- 
ism  might  be  said  to  be  an  improvement  upon  the  worship 
of  Moloch.  But  their  woeful  ineffectiveness  was  realized 
as  much  by  the  new  converts  as  by  the  Roman  legionaries 
who  had  ceased  to  respect  them.  Treves  and  its  neigh- 
bors were  awaiting  Christianity. 

St.  Helena  lived  for  a  time  at  Treves.  It  was  in  her 
honor  that  the  great  amphitheater  was  reddened  with  the 
massacre  of  the  pagan  Franks.  The  great  Constantine, 
her  son,  made  the  city  his  second  capital  and  took  all  the 
Christians  of  the  vicinity  under  his  imperial  protection. 

When  the  Franks  succeeded  Rome,  albeit  their  own 
Christianity  was  nominal, — a  faith  of  convenience  rather 
than  ultimate  salvation, — they  did  not  allow  their 
apathy  to  hinder  the  work  begun  under  the  Romans.  St. 
Eucherius,  first  Bishop  of  Treves,  received  his  appoint- 
ment to  the  see  at  the  hands  of  St.  Peter.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  St.  Agritus  and  St.  Maximin,  whose  missions 
flourished. 

The  temples  of  Diana  and  Venus  that  had  sprung  up  in 
the  groves  where  the  Druids  conducted  their  sacred  abat- 
toirs were  converted  into  churches.    The  simplicity  with 

44 


GHOSTS 

which  wooden  panels  adapted  the  altars  of  the  pagan  god- 
desses to  Christian  uses  and  crude  images  of  the  saints 
displaced  the  lares  and  penates  in  the  newly  civilized 
households  is  typical  of  the  manner  in  which  the  two  reli- 
gions merged. 

In  the  scattered  villages  of  the  Ardennes  paganism  re- 
tained its  followers,  just  as  the  sacrificial  fires  in  the 
Druid  forests  continued  to  glow  long  after  Julius  Caesar 
— two-fisted  theologian  that  he  was — had  brought  his 
arguments  of  iron  and  brass  to  advance  the  cause  of  Zeus 
against  the  priests  of  Baal  or  his  local  representative. 

And  pagan  practices  never  died  entirely.  Some  of 
them  have  received  a  Christian  significance.  Some  of 
them  are  looked  upon  as  harmless  superstitions,  but  in 
many  localities  in  the  duchy  a  reincarnated  Phoenician 
might  find  himself  at  home  in  the  ceremonial  of  a  Chris- 
tian festival  day  and  a  Druid  might  view  the  honoring 
of  a  patron  saint  and  whet  his  knife  to  take  part  in  it. 

When  Pepin  died  he  left  two  widows,  but  one  of  them, 
whose  title  was  not  recognized  by  the  church,  had  small 
part  in  shaping  the  destinies  of  the  community  in  which 
she  wore  her  mourning. 

The  other,  Plectrude,  gave  royal  favor  to  a  monastery 
at  Echternach,  religious  capital  of  Luxemburg,  and 
builded  better  than  had  her  intelligent  husband.  The 
Echternach  abbey  for  thirteen  hundred  years  carried  the 
torch  of  civilization  in  the  Moselle  region.    It  taught  the 

45 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

people  mutual  dependence,  a  grace  they  sorely  needed; 
the  amenities  of  a  social  existence,  which  they  lacked  no 
less;  and  the  best  methods  of  agriculture,  which  assured 
them  of  a  lasting  livelihood. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  St.  Willibrord  and  his  contemporary 
St.  Hubert  divided  the  Ardennes,  north  and  south,  be- 
tween them  and  carried  on  a  zealous  work,  humanizing  as 
well  as  Christianizing,  patiently  laboring  in  a  difficult 
vineyard. 

Across  the  Rhine,  results  were  not  so  simple.  The 
Saxons,  serene  in  their  paganism,  did  not  take  kindly  to 
missionaries.  Charlemagne,  witnessing  the  futility  of 
linguistic  argument,  tried  new  tactics.  He  hanged  forty- 
five  hundred  of  them  as  proof  of  the  error  of  their 
ways.  But  the  Saxons  were  an  ignorant  people.  They 
stubbornly  refused  to  see  the  connection  between  this 
hangman's  field-day  and  the  truth  of  the  Gospel.  In- 
stead of  embracing  the  cross  they  retired  to  their  hidden 
altars  and  offered  sacrifices  to  their  heathen  gods,  with  an 
ungenerous  prayer  for  the  prompt  removal  of  Charle- 
magne. Naturally  incensed,  the  great  emperor  decided 
to  make  them  their  own  missionaries. 

He  assembled  ten  thousand  of  the  more  active  recalci- 
trants and  scattered  them  through  the  Moselle  provinces 
for  the  benefit  of  example,  better  climate,  and  social  in- 
tercourse with  their  intellectual  superiors. 

The  plan  seems  to  have  worked  out  all  right  and  Lux- 

46 


GHOSTS 

emburg  received  a  new  leaven.  Sassenheim,  Sassel,  and 
Sasselbach  are  names  on  the  map  of  the  grand  duchy  that 
recall  their  visit.  The  "English"  words  that  run  through 
the  native  vocabulary  are  their  gift  to  the  people  with 
whom  they  were  thrown  into  unwilling  contact. 

The  Normans,  who  paid  a  naval  visit  to  the  duchy,  sail- 
ing up  the  Rhine  and  Moselle  in  their  shallow-draft 
boats,  added  their  bit  to  the  great  melting-pot.  They 
conquered  all  who  opposed  them  between  Coblenz  and 
Metz,  and  retired  a  few  months  later.  But  for  all  the 
brevity  of  their  visit,  their  traits  have  come  down  to  the 
posterity  of  the  fair  Austrasian  women  whom  they  found 
there. 

Early  in  the  eighth  century  had  come  Charles  Martel 
the  Hammer,  fresh  from  his  victory  over  the  Saracens  on 
the  Loire, — a  bit  crude  as  a  Christian,  despite  his  fame 
as  the  savior  of  Europe.  He  fell  ill  at  Treves.  The 
monks,  who  were  the  only  physicians  of  their  period,  un- 
dertook to  cure  him,  and  to  that  end  laid  his  pain-racked 
body  on  St.  Maximin's  tomb.  The  Hammer  recovered, 
and  in  gratitude  willed  four  of  his  Austrasian  districts  to 
the  convent. 

Here  comes  the  first  approach  of  Luxemburg  to  nation- 
ality, for  one  of  the  districts,  Wismaris  Ecclesia,  known 
locally  as  Weimerskirch,  bounded  a  ruined  fort  atop  a 
great  rock  in  the  valley  of  the  Alizontia  (Alzette) . 
Lucilinburhuc  it  was  called, — a  name  coined  by  the  thick- 

47 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

tongued  Franks  from  their  Latm  culincz  and  German 
idiom.    The  title  meant  "Little  Outpost." 

The  poly-racial  humanity  of  Europe  then  set  about 
demonstrating  that  Charlemagne  had  lived  too  long  be- 
fore his  time.  His  empire  proved  to  be  a  great  engine 
that  his  incompetent  successors  could  neither  understand 
nor  manage.  The  magnificent  unity  that  he  had  welded 
was  divided  up  into  small  parcels,  one  of  which  was 
named  Lotharingia,  or  Lorraine,  after  its  ruler,  Lothaire 
IL  A  succession  of  half-witted  kings  left  to  history  noth- 
ing but  a  list  of  comical  names  and  presently  there  came 
a  revolt  in  Lotharingia  and  the  district  passed  under  the 
domination  of  the  East  Franks,  or  Saxons. 

The  administration  of  the  affairs  of  Lorraine,  such  as 
it  was,  was  taken  up  by  the  dukes  of  Lorraine,  whose 
power  sprang  from  appointment  by  the  German  Emperor. 
About  930  A.  D.  lived  Count  Wiric  or  Ricvin,  whose  name, 
spelled  either  way,  meant  "rich  in  wine."  He  was  the 
father  of  Siegfroid,  and  Siegfroid  was  the  father  of  Lux- 
emburg. 


48 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  FAIRY  MELUSINE 


Peeping  Siegfroid  and  the  Mermaid  Godiva 

Fairy  elves 
Whose  midnight  revels  by  a  forest  side 
Or  fountain  some  belated  peasant  sees, 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  overhead  the  moon 
Sits  arbitress. 

— Milton. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FAIRY  M^LUSINE 

SIEGFROID  was  a  quiet  builder.  Most  of  the 
world  of  his  own  time  never  heard  of  him  or  of  the 
noble  house  of  Ardenne,  of  which  he  was  the  chief. 
Succeeding  ages  knew  of  him  only  as  one  lofty  ambition 
after  another  tripped  over  the  stumbling-block  he  had 
left  for  them.  Compact  histories  of  the  Christian  era  pass 
him  by  without  a  word,  and  for  that  matter  so  do  some  of 
the  more  voluminous.  But  Siegfroid,  "unwept,  unhon- 
ored,  and  unsung,"  sat  amid  his  own  little  rocks  and  ham- 
mered out  a  future  for  Europe.  The  Druid  priests  of  his 
skin-clad  forefathers  in  the  weirdest  of  their  divinations 
could  not  have  foretold  the  distance  that  Siegf roid's  long 
arm  would  stretch  forward  into  the  centuries. 

Directly,  his  influence  ended  with  the  war  of  1870.  In- 
directly, it  is  still  abroad  over  the  shell  craters  of  the 
Meuse  Valley  and  the  alien  bayonets  at  the  Rhine  bridge- 
heads, and  no  one  can  guess  where  it  will  end. 

Siegfroid  was  the  first  prince  of  a  long  and  illustrious 
line.  Of  his  blood  were  Cunegunde,  saint  and  empress; 
Ermesinde,  Countess  of  Luxemburg,  patroness  of  reli- 
gion, and  administrative  genius;  Henry  VII,  Emperor 
of  Germany;  John  the  Blind  of  Bohemia,  a  kingly  knight 
errant,  at  once  the  most  picturesque,  the  most  heroic,  and 

51 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  most  pathetic  figure  of  his  time;  Charles  IV,  head  of 
the  Holy  Roman  Empire;  Sigismund,  another  emperor; 
and  William  the  Silent,  founder  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 
As  the  progenitor  of  this  great  dynasty  alone  he  would 
have  merited  an  immortal  memory. 

But  Siegfroid  made  one  other  contribution  to  the 
world's  affairs. 

From  Wiric  he  inherited  a  number  of  isolated  prop- 
erties of  small  individual  importance.  They  were  as 
much  of  a  domain  as  a  number  of  building-lots  are  a  city. 
Siegfroid  might  have  remained  Count  of  Ardenne  as  his 
father  before  him  had  been,  complacently  accepting  the 
world's  goods  amid  unprotected  holdings  that  presently 
would  fall  into  the  hands  of  some  barbarian  invader. 
But  never  would  he  have  been  much  more  than  a  rich 
country  gentleman,  loved  or  hated  in  his  own  county  and 
unknown  save  to  the  peasants  of  his  own  lands.  The 
young  count,  however,  had  ambitions. 

He  decided  that  only  in  the  union  of  his  territory  could 
he  hope  to  make  himself  a  power  and  he  speedily  set  about 
the  task  of  coordination.  In  the  center  of  his  lands,  on 
the  road  from  Arlon  to  Treves,  was  a  barren  spot  that  ap- 
pealed to  his  latent  military  instincts  as  an  excellent 
place  for  an  administrative  capital.  It  was  part  of  a 
tract  deeded  to  the  Abbey  of  St.  Maximin  at  Treves  by 
Charles  Martel  more  than  two  hundred  years  before. 
Siegfroid  was  the  owner  of  more  desirable  lands  near 

52 


O   ^ 
eq  < 

^  . 

X  -3 

Q 
a 


THE  FAIRY  MELUSINE 

Feulen  and  these  he  traded  for  the  part  of  the  Weimer- 
kirch  territory  needed  as  the  keystone  in  his  ducal  edifice 
in  963  A.  D. 

From  that  purchase  dates  the  history  of  Luxemburg  as 
a  distinct  and  autonomous  nation. 

Luxemburg  was  built  about  the  great  rock  that  juts 
into  the  valley  of  the  Alzette, — the  mighty  Bock.  Had 
there  been  no  Bock  there  would  have  been  no  intense 
rivalry  for  its  possession  as  a  fortress,  other  strategic 
points  would  have  taken  up  the  attention  of  the  free- 
fighting  combatants,  and  the  twentieth  century  would 
have  seen  other  boundary  arrangements  upon  the  maps  of 
Europe. 

But  the  rock  was  there.  Centuries  before  Christ  it  had 
become  an  important  fort  on  the  road  from  Rheims  to 
Treves, — a  commanding  position  that  might  well  control 
any  attack  sweeping  from  the  Rhineland  toward  the 
Meuse  or  from  Holland  toward  the  valley  of  the  Moselle. 
Lucilinburhuc  ("little  fortress"),  the  prehistoric  Celts 
had  named  it.  The  Romans  conceded  the  title  apt.  They 
added  a  few  decorations  of  their  own  to  the  great  rock, 
strengthened  it  at  the  points  where  nature  had  not  pro- 
vided made-to-order  moats  and  enceintes,  and  settled 
down  to  hold  it  during  the  five  hundred  years  of  their  oc- 
cupation. 

It  was  old  Herr  Fischbach  who  told  me  the  interesting 
chronicle  of  the  Bock's  later  history. 

53 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

As  related  by  Vauban — the  engineer  of  fortifications 
who,  under  Louis  XIV,  made  the  natural  rock  the  strong- 
est inland  military  post  in  all  the  world — the  story  is 
the  intriguing  narrative  of  the  development  of  a  mass  of 
rock  upon  which  the  peace  of  Europe  was  wrecked  time 
after  time  during  a  thousand  years.  It  needs  no  embel- 
lishment to  stand  forth  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
tales  that  have  come  up  from  an  age  of  glittering 
romance. 

As  related  by  Herr  Fischbach  it  becomes  what  such 
history  would  naturally  be  among  a  people  of  Gallic 
ancestry, — a  whimsical  recital  of  epic  legend,  a  fairy  tale 
comprising  all  the  elements  of  the  enchanted  castle,  the 
test  of  love,  and  the  sleeping  beauty.  The  narrator  did 
not  believe  the  tale  himself,  but  he  might  have  had  diffi- 
culty in  explaining  why  he  doubted  it.  The  inborn  re- 
spect for  tradition  that  he  had  acquired  in  his  mother's 
arms  was  in  his  voice  as  he  stood  looking  down  upon  the 
plain  of  Clausen,  where  once  the  splendid  turrets  of  the 
Chateau  Mansfeld,  home  of  a  Spanish  intruder,  who 
governed  the  district  for  Philip  II,  reared  themselves 
under  the  protecting  eyes  of  Siegfroid's  Gibraltar. 

"As  you  see,  Monsieur,  this  was  a  wonderful  city,"  he 
told  me.  "It  has  been  so  within  my  memory.  As  a  small 
boy  I  watched  the  engineers  tearing  down  the  ramparts. 
I  cheered  when  the  Prussian  garrison  departed,  and  I 

54 


THE  FAIRY  MELUSINE 

trembled  with  the  rest  of  Luxemburg  when  they  came 
back  two  years  later  to  conquer  France, 

*'They  say,  Monsieur,  that  Siegfroid  could  not  have 
built  his  fort  without  supernatural  help  and  many  le- 
gends have  sprung  from  his  work.  Some  say  that  he  sold 
his  soul  to  the  devil  and  then  redeemed  himself,  but  that 
is  not  a  pretty  story. 

"If  I  were  to  believe  any  of  the  tales,  I  should  choose 
that  of  Melusine,  the  good  fairy  now  locked  up  in  the 
depths  of  the  great  rock,  who  holds  the  destiny  of  the  city 
in  her  hands.  "They  say  that  Siegfroid  met  Melusine 
when  he  first  began  to  build  his  castle  upon  the  ruins 
that  the  Romans  had  left.  She  was  beautiful  and  he  was 
young.  He  was  brave  and  strong  and  she  was  more  than 
half  mortal.    They  fell  in  love. 

"But  she  foresaw  the  danger  that  lay  in  marriage  with 
a  being  of  flesh  and  blood  and  tried  to  avoid  him.  That 
shows,  Monsieur,  that  even  a  fairy  cannot  be  omniscient, 
for  repulses  are  no  barrier  to  a  strong  man's  love.  He  im- 
portuned. She  listened  to  her  heart.  She  consented  to 
marry  him  upon  condition  that  she  might  spend  every 
Saturday  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room  and  that  he 
would  not  intrude  upon  her  nor  ask  her  questions. 

"Siegfroid  agreed  to  the  conditions.  He  would  have 
agreed  to  anything  to  hasten  their  nuptials.  And  so 
they  were  married,  the  fairy  and  the  mortal  chieftain, 
with  all  the  blessings  of  the  church. 

55 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"The  next  morning,  when  Siegf roid  stepped  forth  from 
his  modest  house  in  the  valley  of  the  Alzette  to  look  at  the 
progress  of  his  work  upon  the  great  Bock,  he  discovered  to 
his  wonderment  that  the  rock  had  brought  forth  fruit. 
A  great  chateau,  strongly  and  beautifully  fashioned, 
crowned  the  summit.  It  was  Melusine's  wedding-gift  to 
her  husband. 

"Siegf roid  did  not  question  the  miracle,  for  that  was 
the  age  when  such  wonders  were  not  uncommon.  They 
became  very  happy.  Monsieur,  so  happy  that  Melusine 
forgot  the  danger  that  lay  ahead  of  them.  They  had 
several  fine  children,  all  of  them  perfectly  natural  mor- 
tals with  no  trace  of  their  semi-preternatural  ancestry. 
And  Melusine  was  a  good  mother  to  them,  except  that 
she  left  them  every  Saturday  in  the  care  of  her  ladies  in 
waiting  while  she  retired  to  her  own  suite. 

"There  is  no  mention  of  how  long  this  went  on.  It 
probably  was  a  long  time,  for  we  know  that  Siegfroid's; 
family  was  large.  But  one  day  he  became  suspicious. 
It  is  the  way  of  men — and  women,  too.  They  are  inquisi- 
tive. Siegfroid,  after  all,  was  merely  a  descendant  of 
Mother  Eve. 

"That  fatal  Saturday  he  went  to  her  apartments.  Her 
bedroom  was  empty.  So  was  that  of  her  personal  at- 
tendant. Siegfroid  went  on  to  the  end  of  the  wing,  where 
Melusine  had  built  for  herself  a  Roman  bath  fed  by  a 
natural  spring.    The  door  of  this  room  was  partially  open 

y6 


THE  FAIRY  MELUSINE 

and  Siegfroid,  forgetting  the  promise  that  he  had  given 
in  all  honor,  looked  in. 

"Horrible  sight  I  There  in  the  crystal  waters  of  the 
bath  sported  Melusine.  Her  thick  golden  hair  fell  in 
shimmering  masses  over  her  ivory  shoulders.  But  her 
beautiful  body,  so  wonderfully  proportioned,  had 
changed.  Her  legs,  which  tradition  says  were  the  most 
delicately  molded  limbs  that  ever  carried  a  goddess  sculp- 
tured in  the  flesh,  were  gone.  In  their  place  writhed  the 
horrible  tail  of  a  mermaid.  The  soft,  pink  skin  of  Melu- 
sine had  been  replaced  by  the  green  scales  of  a  fish. 

"In  spite  of  himself  Siegfroid  cried  out. 

"Well,  that  was  the  end  of  it,  Monsieur.  The  nymph 
cast  one  look  of  anguish  toward  the  door.  Then  with  a 
clap  of  thunder  her  bath  sank  into  the  earth,  carrying 
her  along  with  it.  The  dazed  and  horror-stricken  count 
stood  gazing  through  an  open  doorway  upon  the  surface 
of  the  rock,  as  barren  as  it  had  been  on  the  day  when  he 
espoused  the  beautiful  Melusine.  It  is  said  that  he 
nearly  died  of  grief.  But  grief  does  not  bring  back  those 
whom  we  love,  nor  repair  the  damage  wrought  by  our 
folly.    He  never  saw  Melusine  again. 

"They  say  that  she  is  still  in  the  rock,  a  prisoner  of  evil 
enchantments,  a  victim  of  powers  that  resented  her  Chris- 
tian marriage. 

57 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"Every  seven  years  she  comes  back,  sometimes  as  a 
beautiful  woman,  sometimes  in  the  form  of  a  serpent,  in 
either  event  holding  in  her  mouth  a  small  golden  key. 

''Whoever  has  the  courage  to  take  the  key  from  be- 
tween her  teeth  will  find  a  marvelous  creature  in  his  em- 
brace, Monsieur.    For  Melusine  will  be  free. 

"Between  her  visits  to  the  scene  of  her  disastrous  mor- 
tal love,  Melusine  works  upon  a  chemise  of  linen,  taking 
one  stitch  every  seven  years.  Not  a  rapid  work,  you  will 
say,  but  it  is  important.  If  the  chemise  is  finished 
before  she  is  rescued  from  the  rock,  the  earth  will  open 
and  the  Bock,  the  fortress,  and  the  city  of  Luxemburg 
will  be  swallowed  up.  A  single  thunder-clap  will  mark 
their  passing. 

"A  strange  story,  Monsieur.  But  I  suppose  there  is 
some  truth  in  it.    There  is  some  truth  in  everything." 

To  my  notion  the  old  man's  summary  of  the  situation 
was  as  accurate  as  it  was  concise:  There  is  some  truth 
in  everything.  Admitting  that,  one  can  understand  the 
grand  duchy  and  the  beautiful  faith  of  its  people. 

It  might  puzzle  some  how  the  mermaid  came  to  wan- 
der so  far  afield  and  how,  unless  she  were  a  very  shallow- 
draft  mermaid, — she  managed  to  keep  her  fins  moist  in 
the  rocky  hills.  But  dozens  of  legends  have  it  that  she 
did.  She  came  several  hundred  kilometers  with  the  salt 
of  the  sea  glistening  in  her  green-gold  tresses.    Of  course 

58 


THE  FAIRY  MELUSINE 

she  must  have;  otherwise,  how  could  Siegfroid  have 
found  her  there  in  the  valley  of  the  Alzette? 

But,  although  Melusine  will  ever  be  a  principal  charac- 
ter in  Luxemburg  city  folk-lore,  other  legends  attribute 
the  rise  of  Siegfroid  to  influences  entirely  outside  the 
sphere  of  his  sea-going  wife. 

It  is  said — with  bated  breath  and  fearsome  glance,  but 
still  convincingly — that  Siegfroid  rented  his  soul  to  the 
devil  for  aid  in  building  the  chateau  and  its  rocky  cinc- 
tures. 

Thirty  years  was  the  term  of  the  lease,  to  be  followed 
by  a  permanent  transfer  subject  to  such  terms  as  might  be 
worked  out  at  that  time.  The  medieval  Satan  may  have 
been  totally  evil,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  was 
lacking  in  brains,  for  all  his  hundreds  of  years  of  ac- 
quaintance with  the  human  race  and  its  failings. 

As  soon  as  Siegfroid  had  completed  the  manufacture 
of  the  fortress  that  was  to  prove  the  curse  of  his  country 
and  the  nations  adjoining,  he  set  about  to  make  the  best 
of  the  "joker"  clauses  in  the  contract.  He  promptly 
turned  his  attention  to  the  religious  pursuits  that  he  had 
ignored  in  the  signing  of  his  base  compact.  He  sur- 
rounded himself  with  pious  companions,  endowed  monas- 
teries and  convents,  including  Echternach  and  Princess 
Irmene's  hospital,  and  became  studiously  pious.  He 
conducted  a  little  private  reformation  in  his  own  do- 
mains, ousting  a  number  of  lay  brethren  at  the  Echter- 

59 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

nach  abbey  who  had  leanings  toward  ecclesiastical  reve- 
nue rather  than  priestly  sacrifice,  and  replacing  them 
with  Benedictine  monks  who  restored  to  the  abbey  the 
standard  of  morality  that  had  distinguished  its  founders. 

What  the  holder  of  the  lease  was  doing  all  this  time  can 
hardly  be  imagined.  He  appeared,  however,  on  the  day 
appointed,  while  Siegfroid  stood  conversing  with  a  holy 
monk  of  Treves,  whose  abbey  he  represented  as  advocate. 
The  evil  one  struck  at  Siegfroid's  unprotected  neck,  but 
the  monk  interposed  his  crucifix.  At  that  same  instant  a 
pufF  of  smoke  arose  from  the  top  of  the  count's  head  and 
traveled  in  a  widening  ring  through  the  open  window  and 
up  into  the  cloudless  sky.  This  was  taken  to  indicate  that 
the  landlord  of  Siegfroid's  soul  had  been  a  bit  too  late 
with  his  eviction  proceedings  and  that  the  tenant  had 
escaped  replevin  via  a  sort  of  injunction. 

The  devil,  who  must  have  felt  a  good  deal  of  an  ass 
to  have  been  so  completely  taken  in,  promptly  disap- 
peared and  did  not  come  back  until  decades  afterward, 
when  he  compromised  on  the  loss  of  the  count  by  taking 
a  sort  of  small-change  payment  in  the  person  of  Henry 
the  Damned. 

Whatever  the  supernatural  relationships  of  Siegfroid, 
it  is  certain  that  he  left  a  tangible  imprint  of  his  person- 
ality upon  the  ages. 

Lucilinburhuc,  the  ruined  Roman  outpost,  became  a 
burg,  or  fortified  city.  Conscripts  from  his  adjoining  lands 

60 


THE  FAIRY  MELUSINE 

were  brought  in  to  throw  a  heavy  wall  about  the  great 
chateau,  a  wall  protected  in  turn  by  an  artificial  fosse 
isolating  the  great  Bock  from  the  plateau  behind  it. 
Caravans  passing  along  the  ancient  road  from  Treves  to 
Rheims  took  note  of  this  growing  stronghold  and  adver- 
tised its  fame.  Peasantry  came  to  look  and  stayed  to 
work.  They  discovered  that  Siegfroid  as  a  leader  was 
something  of  an  improvement  upon  the  robber  barons  of 
the  period.  They  swore  allegiance  to  him,  placed  them- 
selves under  his  protection,  and  unloaded  their  lentil 
bowls  and  maces  in  the  valley  of  the  Alzette  and  in  the 
gorge  of  its  tributary  the  Petrusse. 

So  was  formed  the  nucleus  of  a  kingdom,  much  as  other 
kingdoms  were  forming  elsewhere  through  necessity  of 
the  world's  changing  policies  and  politics. 

A  wooden  bridge  was  thrown  across  the  chasm,  seven 
square  towers  set  in  the  outer  wall  to  guard  the  city,  and 
the  burg  that  succeeded  Lucilinburhuc  was  called  by  the 
name's  equivalent  in  the  current  idiom,  Lutzelbourg. 
Time  and  the  varying  fortunes  of  the  language  changed 
Lutzelbourg  to  Luxembourg  or  Luxemburg. 

The  interesting  Siegfroid  had  other  adventures  beside 
his  marital  fiasco  and  soul-marketing  experience.  He 
fought  a  little  war  with  King  Lothair  of  France,  who  cast 
jealous  eyes  upon  the  seven-towered  fortress  of  Lutzel- 
bourg, and  was  captured.  He  was  taken  to  a  stronghold 
on  the  Marne  and  locked  up  in  a  rocky  dungeon, — a  fit- 

61 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ting  punishment,  one  would  think,  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  his  broken  word  had  condemned  the  beautiful  Melu- 
sine  to  a  similar  fate. 

Melusine,  however,  did  not  desert  him.  Though  she 
could  not  help  herself,  she  had  acquired  an  expert  knowl- 
edge of  prisons  during  her  stay  in  the  depths  of  the  Bock 
and  she  communicated  some  of  her  useful  information  to 
her  captive  spouse.  One  day  his  jailer  appeared  with 
the  daily  ration  of  bread  and  water  to  find  the  dungeon 
empty  and  the  brave  Count  Siegf  roid  miraculously  flown. 
It  was  very  disconcerting  to  Lothair  of  France,  and  like- 
wise to  the  jailer,  who  lost  his  head  as  a  consequence. 

Siegfroid  returned  to  the  County  of  Lutzelbourg  in 
985  and  lived  there  for  thirteen  years,  a  benefactor  of  the 
church  and  the  clever  organizer  of  a  country.  His  accom- 
plishments were  worthy  of  a  descendant  of  Charlemagne, 
for  he  lived  to  see  the  barons  of  the  Alzette,  Sure  and  Our 
united  under  his  direction,  and  the  spreading  of  the  name 
Lutzelbourg  over  the  domains  of  a  dozen  fortified  cities. 

He  was  survived  by  five  sons  and  four  daughters.  The 
eldest  daughter  was  Cunegunde,  sainted  empress,  the 
wife  of  Henry  II  of  Germany.  The  dynasty  which  he 
founded  continued  until  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, when  the  House  of  Burgundy  superseded  it. 

The  early  descendants  of  Siegfroid  were  a  peculiar  lot, 
who  contributed  much  to  the  excitement  of  living  in  their 

62 


THE  FAIRY  MELUSINE 

vicinity  but  little  to  the  improvement  of  their  own  con- 
dition or  that  of  their  vassals. 

Arthur  Herchen  in  his  "Manuel  d'  Histoire  Nationale" 
says  of  them:  "They  were  for  the  most  part  men  of  a 
fierce  disposition,  covetous  of  fame,  booty,  and  occasion- 
ally vengeance.  Also  their  wars  were  frequent,  above  all 
with  the  City  of  Treves.  The  history  of  their  reigns  is 
monotonous  and  fatiguing  and  not  worth  a  detailed 
study." 

To  one  who  is  interested  in  the  steps  that  mark  the 
development  of  the  Luxembourgeois  from  savagery  to 
their  present-day  estate,  however,  their  careers  have  a  cer- 
tain significance.  They  represented  a  development  of 
character.  Children  they  were,  just  emerging  from  a  nur- 
sery to  a  monarchic  power  that  they  had  not  been  taught 
to  use,  creatures  of  whims  and  passions,  swordsmen  and 
benefactors,  killers  and  saviors,  robbers  and  crusaders. 
They  were  self-satisfied,  vainglorious,  pompous,  kind, 
chivalrous,  or  cruel  as  the  spirit  moved  them.  Withal 
they  were  heroic  and  a  bit  comical. 

Of  seven  of  these  counts,  history  makes  detailed  men- 
tion of  only  two.  Giselbert  (1047-59)  ^ound  himself 
cramped  in  the  quarters  constructed  by  the  illustrious 
Siegfroid.  He  directed  the  building  of  a  new  wall  to 
take  in  ten  times  as  much  territory  as  Siegfroid  had 
found  necessary  for  the  original  city.  It  was  guarded  by 
twelve  towers  and  pierced  by  six  sally-ports.    Conrad  I, 

63 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Giselbert's  successor,  made  a  name  for  himself  through 
the  establishment  of  the  Abbey  of  Altmunster,  a  Benedic- 
tine institution  which  for  three  centuries  exercised  a  mo- 
nopoly over  education  in  the  eastern  portion  of  the 
county. 

Despite  the  quarrels  of  the  seven,  Luxemburg  grew 
and  was  fairly  prosperous.  Every  school-boy  in  the 
duchy  knows  why :  Melusine,  whose  blood  flowed  through 
their  veins,  was  watching  over  them,  preventing  the  ex- 
termination which  ofttimes  threatened  them  in  the  hope 
that  some  day  they  would  bring  about  her  rescue. 

Poor  Melusine  I    She  is  still  watching  and  still  hoping. 


64 


CHAPTER  V 
TIME'S  FOOTPRINTS 


A  Love  Eternal 

None  shall  part  us 

From  each  other, 
One  in  life  and  love  are  we. 

— W.  S.  Gilbert. 


CHAPTER  V 

time's  footprints 

So  a  thousand  years  have  passed  and  feudalism 
is  sounding  its  lordly  trumpets  before  the  port- 
cullis of  Luxemburg.  The  illustrious  and  storied 
country  has  advanced  that  incalculable  step  which  lies  be- 
tween an  existence  purely  geographical  and  true  nation- 
ality. 

From  Julius  Caesar  to  Siegf roid  and  the  fairy  Melusine, 
Time  has  trodden  a  queer  pathway.  The  sands  from  his 
hour-glass  have  spilled  upon  a  road  paved  dim  centuries 
ago  by  the  flamens  of  the  Druids  and  the  sacrificial  altar- 
stones  of  the  cult  of  Wotan.  The  shadows  of  successive 
springs  have  fallen  across  the  sculptured  shrines  of 
Roman  goddesses,  the  stone  coffins  of  the  Franks,  the 
flagged  courtyards  of  robbers'  roosts,  the  modest  chan- 
cels of  Christian  chapels,  the  ash-strewn  trails  of  destruc- 
tive invaders,  the  happy  streets  of  villages  built  by  em- 
pire, the  wreckage  of  desolation. 

Along  that  road  to  the  dawn  of  the  world  are  countless 
landmarks.  About  the  landmarks  cling  scores  of  ro- 
mances that  have  found  no  favor  with  the  makers  of 
books. 

One  knows  something  of  the  habits  of  the  early  Celts, 

67 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

of  whom  no  contemporaneous  word  has  been  written, 
through  the  implements  and  monuments  that  they  left 
behind  in  dving.  The  grim  mysteries  of  the  Druids  are 
made  real  through  the  crop  of  strange  rocks,  planted  in 
fire  and  irrigated  with  blood,  still  hidden  in  all  their  ter- 
rible secretiveness  in  shadowed  groves  and  silent  marshes. 

Had  Caesar  never  written  his  one-sided  commentaries, 
the  magnificence  of  the  empire  that  he  helped  so  much  to 
build  would  be  realized  from  the  burial  hillocks  along  the 
magnificent  highways  constructed  for  his  armies. 

"Treat  legend  kindly,"  observes  Guizot  in  his  History 
of  France.  He  quotes  the  opinion  of  Monsieur  Fauriel  of 
the  Academy  of  Inscriptions  concerning  historical  fables : 
"Whatever  may  be  their  authorship  the  fables  in  question 
are  historic  in  the  sense  that  they  relate  to  real  facts  of 
which  they  are  a  poetical  expression,  a  romantic  develop- 
ment, conceived  with  the  idea  of  popularizing  kings  with 
their  Gallo-Roman  subjects."  And  he  disagrees  with 
this  paraphrase  of  the  adage  "Where  there  is  smoke  there 
is  fire" ;  "It  cannot  be  admitted  that  this  is  a  sufficient  and 
truthlike  explanation  of  these  tales.  They  have  a  graver 
origin  and  contain  more  truth  than  would  be  supposed 
from  some  of  the  anecdotes  and  sayings  mixed  up  with 
them." 

Guizot  speaks  concerning  a  fanciful  tale  regarding  the 
marriage  of  Clovis  with  Clotilde,  niece  of  Gondebaud, 
King  of  the  Bergundians.    But  what  he  has  said  of  one 

68 


TIME'S  FOOTPRINTS 

anecdote  is  applicable  to  all.  Few  myths,  from  the  Haida 
Indian  stories  of  Raven,  which  are  preposterous,  to  the 
Homeric  epics,  which  sound  almost  plausible,  are  manu- 
factured out  of  whole  cloth. 

Episodes  of  the  Roman  occupation  still  make  fireside 
conversation  in  some  quarters  of  Luxemburg  among  peo- 
ple who  could  not  tell  you  Caesar's  first  name.  They  have 
remained  green  in  the  memory  while  dates  and  places 
have  grown  hazy. 

Children  still  are  frightened  in  the  Bouillon  district 
— once  part  and  parcel  of  Luxemburg — with  threats  of 
the  Black  Woman  who  has  been  roaming  the  Ardennes 
since  long  before  the  stanchest  oak  was  yet  an  unsprouted 
acorn. 

Details  of  her  appearance  are  not  lacking.  She  is 
nude,  black,  wild,  a  terrible  sprite  with  matted  hair  who 
practises  strange  rites  about  a  fire  in  the  rocks.  And 
these  details  give  clew  to  her  identity. 

To-day  she  is  a  myth,  a  children's  bogey.  Forgotten 
ages  ago,  when  she  had  her  beginning  she  was  probably 
a  Druid  priestess,  lingering  after  her  time,  practising  her 
strange  cult  for  the  secret  edification  of  backwoodsmen 
who  refused  to  be  proselytized  by  the  gods  of  Rome.  She 
was  seen  by  some  pious  villager  who  knew  nothing  of  her 
connections,  and  her  spirit  has  lived  in  the  vestal  fires  of 
tradition  through  centuries  which  her  power  of  divina- 
tion could  not  have  penetrated. 

69 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

History,  penned  by  the  Romans  in  the  bitterness  of 
personal  experience,  tells  us  that  the  Swabians  came  out 
of  the  Black  Forest, — a  hundred  thousand  blond  reincar- 
nations of  the  great  Hercules,  destroyers  relentless  and 
terrible.  The  legions  of  Rome  itself  were  powerless  to 
stop  them  as  they  put  the  Rhineland  on  the  pyre,  a  sacri- 
fice to  the  great  god  Wotan.  The  Swabians  were  driven 
back  to  the  Rhine,  eventually,  for  they  were  a  raiding- 
party  on  a  magnificent  scale  rather  than  an  army.  Where 
they  might  have  been  a  great  racial  influence  they  became 
vague  figures  in  a  half-forgotten  incident.  So  much  is 
a  matter  of  the  written  word. 

The  Nennig  mosaics,  as  interpreted  by  Passmore,  tell 
a  simple  story  of  love,  the  same  then  as  now,  and  intrigue, 
that  has  changed  hardly  a  bit  in  international  relation- 
ships, as  it  existed  during  the  Roman  occupation  of  the 
Rhineland. 

There  was  a  patrician  at  Treves.  The  stone  records 
of  his  ornate  career  show  him  to  have  been  something  of 
a  fop.  Act  One  of  the  Nennig  drama  places  him  in  the 
midst  of  luxurious  surroundings  in  the  City  of  Emperors. 
A  sybarite  he  appears  to  have  been,  and  a  patron  of  the 
arts  as  represented  by  carvings  of  ingenuous  nymphs  in 
garments  of  refreshing  frankness. 

Enter  his  daughter.  She  flashes  upon  the  stony  picture 
in  a  scene  of  affectionate  greeting,  a  display  of  sentiment 

70 


TIME'S  FOOTPRINTS 

contrasting  prettily  with  the  sensuous  selfishness  of  the 
earlier  scene. 

The  daughter  is  blonde,  petite,  and  wilful.  She  shows 
the  latter  quality  when  the  next  slab  of  the  cinema  is 
unfolded  to  discover  her  flatly  :ef using  to  wed  the  son 
of  a  Roman  governor.  She  points  disdainfully  to  his 
oiled  hair  and  anointed  beard  and  announces  that  by  no 
means  will  she  sacrifice  her  life  to  such  a  nonentity.  She 
does  not  like  the  way  in  which  he  wears  his  clothes,  nor 
the  disposition  that  the  style  of  his  hair  so  patently 
indicates. 

Comes  the  denouement  in  the  next  marble.  It  repre- 
sents the  golden-haired  daughter  in  a  clandestine  meeting 
with  a  tall,  brawny  guard  of  the  palace  forces, — a  captain 
of  the  household  troop  and  the  son  of  a  Northern  chief- 
tain.   He  loves  her.    The  scene  is  dainty  and  complete. 

But  the  road  of  love,  even  the  stony  love  of  a  couple 
in  mosaic,  is  rough.  In  every  plot  is  the  obstacle  that 
must  be  surmounted  before  the  iris  closes  upon  the  last 
scene.  In  this  bit  of  Roman  picturization  it  appears  in 
the  shape  of  a  father,  a  superstitious  soul,  bound  body 
and  soul  to  the  nefarious  Druids. 

A  black-bodied  priestess  looks  upon  a  "serpent's  egg" 
and  tells  him  of  his  son's  liaison  with  the  daughter  of  a 
hated  enemy. 

The  climax  is  developed  swiftly.  There  is  a  picture 
which  shows  the  fanatic  father  in  conference  with  the 

71 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

chiefs  of  the  Swabians,  a  barbarian  pest  still  in  their 
ice-locked  cocoon  of  the  North.  And  revenge,  the  basic 
motive  of  the  mosaic  plot,  is  quickly  outlined. 

The  last  of  the  vivid  tablets  shows  the  Swabians  in 
their  flight  across  Europe, — a  sanguinary  plague  only 
too  happy  to  find  an  excuse  to  sweep  out  of  their  barren 
fatherland  into  the  more  fertile  plains  of  the  Rhine  coun- 
try, crushing  down  by  sheer  weight  of  numbers  the  better- 
trained  troops  of  Rome. 

Steel  is  in  their  right  hand  and  flame  in  their  left.  And 
their  objective  is  the  booty-filled  villa  of  the  Roman 
patrician. 

The  mosaics  end  here,  exasperatingly  incomplete. 
The  film  has  snapped  and  the  house  is  in  darkness  at  the 
point  where  the  fortunes  of  the  wilful  Roman  heroine 
and  her  semi-savage  lover  should  be  definitely  settled. 
Whether  she  perished  as  the  Druid  father  intended  that 
she  should,  in  the  drive  of  the  Swabians,  or  escaped  to  the 
crags  of  the  Alzette  with  the  captain  of  the  guard  is  a 
matter  of  conjecture.  After  all,  her  individual  case  is  an 
affair  of  no  moment.  She  is  merely  one  of  many  myste- 
ries and  unimportant.  United  with  him  and  happy,  or 
separated  and  heartbroken,  she  would  have  been  dead 
long  centuries  ago,  anyway.  Only  love  is  eternal,  and 
the  weaver  of  the  stone  tapestries  of  Nennig  seems  to 
have  realized  this,  cementing  into  his  colorful  blocks  the 

72 


TIME'S  FOOTPRINTS 

dominant  issue  and  forgetting  the  characters  as  the  drama 
reached  its  denouement. 

Love  is  stronger  than  death. 

Read  the  proof  once  more  in  the  grave-mounds  along 
the  Roman  road  from  Arlon  to  Treves. 

Recently  one  of  these  hillocks  was  opened.  The  bones 
of  him  who  had  been  buried  there  had  long  since  given 
up  their  original  elements  to  the  soil.  His  trappings  and 
armor,  green  with  the  corrosion  of  ages,  an  urn  or  two,  a 
sculptured  tablet,  and  a  crystal  tear-phial  alone  remained 
to  mark  the  spot  where  he  had  been  laid,  a  stranger  far 
from  home,  for  his  last  long  sleep. 

Reverent  antiquarians  removed  these  evidences  of 
his  visit, — to  the  museum  at  Luxemburg  city,  where  one 
may  see  them  and  ponder  upon  the  past  of  two  thousand 
years  ago  that  somehow  seems  very  near. 

But  the  crystal  tear-phial  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  man  of 
science.  A  chemist  at  the  capital  opened  it,  poured  the 
contents  into  a  test-tube,  and  began  his  inquisitive  round 
of  qualitative  tests.  When  the  last  reaction  had  been 
recorded  in  his  laboratory  note-book,  he  looked  at  the 
tube  with  a  feeling  very  close  to  awe. 

The  contents  of  the  phial  were  really  human  tears, 
— tears  shed  two  thousand  years  ago ! 

There  is  something  epic  in  those  tears.  Who  shed 
them*?  A  widow  burying  the  enduring  token  of  her  grief 
with  her  husband, — a  part  of  herself,  as  a  sort  of  civilized 

73 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

suttee?  A  daughter  left  comfortless,  unprotected  and 
alone,  hundreds  of  miles  from  the  seven  hills'?  Or  did 
they  fall  from  the  eyes  of  a  soldier  and  a  patriot  moved 
from  his  professional  stoicism  as  he  was  cut  down  in  his 
prime  with  his  life-work  unfinished,  his  loved  ones  a 
poignant  memory? 

Ask  the  curator  at  the  museum  about  it.  He  shakes 
his  gray  head  sadly  and  confesses  that  the  legend  which 
some  day  will  explain  the  matter  in  full  detail  has  not 
yet  been  evolved. 

"It  is  a  mystery.  Monsieur,"  says  he.  "It  is  droll,  a 
bit  pathetic  that  the  soldier  of  the  legion  is  gone,  his 
bones  scattered  dust  in  the  soil  of  a  foreign  country.  The 
empire  that  he  helped  to  build  is  gone.  Vanished  are  the 
traces  of  the  nations  that  conquered  it.  And  all  that 
remains  of  his  memory  are  a  bit  of  all-enduring  bronze 
and  some  human  tears. 

"I  like  to  think  of  those  tears  not  as  souvenirs  of  a 
great  grief.  Monsieur,  but  as  pearls  born  of  a  great  love. 
For  tears  are  the  part  of  love.  Eh  bienl  it  was  so  two 
thousand  years  ago.    It  is  so  now." 

He  smiles  as  he  says  it.  The  Teuton  strain  in  him 
rebukes  his  French  enthusiasm  and  makes  him  a  bit 
ashamed.  But  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  that  he  believes  in 
his  own  pretty  sentiment. 


74 


CHAPTER  VI 
PATHS  OF  GLORY 


Royal  Purple 

Sceptre  and  Crown 

Must  tumble   down 

And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 

With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

— Shirley. 


31 

o 


CHAPTER  VI 

PATHS  OF  GLORY 

THE  rise  to  power  of  the  counts  of  Luxemburg, 
more  through  the  advantageous  position  of 
their  capital  than  because  of  any  exceptional 
accomplishments  as  diplomats  and  men  of  arms,  brought 
about  a  corresponding  strengthening  of  their  fiefs. 

Spear-pointed  crags,  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country,  bristled  with  thick-walled  outposts.  In  union 
the  unscrupulous  found  comforting  support,  and  strength 
of  numbers  brought  them  more  plunder.  Power  and 
riches  came  to  them  simultaneously  and  the  improvement 
of  their  station  in  life  was  reflected  in  the  embellishment 
of  their  castles.  Walls  thickened,  moats  deepened,  bat- 
tlements were  lifted  to  commanding  heights  above  the 
narrow  moraines. 

The  chateau  of  Melusine  became  the  scene  of  a  remark- 
able court.  There  came  armored  knights  in  jingling 
chain-mail,  with  great  two-handed  swords  slung  across 
their  shoulders  and  strange  devices  on  their  polished 
shields.  There  came  princesses  with  golden  hair  and 
smiling  eyes  whose  Gallic  ancestry  was  sculptured  in  the 
splendor  of  their  figures, — beautiful  women,  for  the  rob- 

77 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ber  barons  who  acquired  their  chatelaines  as  they  acquired 
their  riches,  by  right  of  conquest,  would  have  no  other 
kind.  There  came  brilliantly  robed  prelates  of  the 
church,  and  scarred  messengers  of  emperors,  and  hard- 
bitten errants,  and  gaunt  but  vigorous  free-lances.  The 
fame  of  the  counts  of  Luxemburg  and  their  court  grew 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  tiny  district  in  which  they 
ruled. 

The  direct  male  line  of  Siegfroid  ended  in  1036, 
with  the  death  of  Conrad  IL  Henry  of  Namur,  grand- 
son of  Conrad  I  and  cousin  of  Conrad  II,  inherited 
the  title.  Henry's  advent,  although  he  was  of  the  blood 
of  Siegfroid,  generally  is  recorded  as  the  beginning  of 
the  regime  of  the  house  of  Namur. 

Henry,  the  fourth  of  his  name,  better  known  as  Henry 
the  Blind  and  Unlucky,  ruled  the  country  for  sixty  tur- 
bulent years.  He  recovered  to  Luxemburg  the  fortress 
of  Bouillon,  captured  by  Count  Renaud  of  Bar,  and 
defeated  Henry  III  of  Limbourg  in  a  quarrel  over  the 
rights  to  Arlon.  The  last  years  of  his  reign  were  spent 
in  a  sanguinary  war  against  his  nephew,  Baudoin  the 
Courageous,  Count  of  Hainaut,  who  had  aided  him 
in  the  unpleasantness  with  Renaud  and  Henry  of 
Limbourg. 

For  all  that  Henry  the  Blind  was  a  crochety  person, 
the  record  of  whose  morals  indicates  that  he  is  little 
entitled  to  sympathy,  this  internecine  strife  of  his  declin- 

78 


PATHS  OF  GLORY 

ing  years  was  not  entirely  his  fault.  It  was  misfortune 
that  caused  it, — ^misfortune  and  Melusine. 

Henry  did  not  marry  until  he  was  sixty  years  old. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  his  misfortune.  Laurence, 
daughter  of  the  Count  of  Flanders,  was  his  first  wife  and 
she  died  childless.  The  rheumatic  bones  of  the  sightless 
Henry  were  none  the  more  comfortable  because  of  the 
life  he  had  led  in  districts  where  the  wine  flowed  freely 
and  the  women  were  fair  and  kind,  and  he  took  the  death 
of  his  wife  as  a  warning  that  his  days  were  numbered. 
In  preparation  for  the  end,  he  willed  his  possessions  in 
Namur,  Laroche,  Durbuy,  and  Luxemburg  to  his  sister 
Alix,  Countess  of  Hainaut,  and  Baudoin  her  son.  All  of 
which  was  paving  the  way  for  greater  misfortune. 

Of  Henry  might  have  been  written  the  famous 
doggerel : 

When  the  devil  was  sick 

The  devil  a  saint  would  be. 
When  the  devil  was  better, 

The  devil  a  saint  was  he. 

Henry's  mourning  for  the  departed  Laurence  was  cut 
short  by  the  sudden  stoppage  of  his  rheumatic  twinges. 
His  prospects  for  a  long  and  useful  career  accordingly 
became  brighter,  and  he  married  a  second  time.  His 
choice  was  Agnes  of  Nassau,  sister  of  the  Count  of 
Gueldre. 

This  romantic  attachment  went  the  way  of  romances 

79 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

of  its  kind.  The  fair  Agnes  was  young  and  Henry  IV 
was  seventy-five.  They  were  divorced  a  short  time  after 
the  ceremony  and  remained  on  the  outs  for  fifteen  years. 
So  far  as  can  be  learned  Henry  did  not  miss  his  wife 
greatly  during  all  those  years.  The  rheumatism  bothered 
him  only  intermittently  and  he  was  not  the  person  to 
grieve. 

He  believed  that  in  his  arrangements  with  his  sister 
Alix  he  had  provided  well  for  the  future  of  Luxemburg. 
But  he  reckoned  without  Melusine. 

The  fairy,  imprisoned  in  her  rock,  knew  all  that  was 
going  on.  She  knew  also  that  ten  rulers  of  Siegfroid's 
line  must  occupy  the  throne  before  she  could  hope  for 
rescue.  She  did  not  propose  to  allow  a  winebibbing, 
skirt-fancying  old  reprobate  to  condemn  her  to  an  eternal 
captivity.  So  she  obtained  a  brief  release  on  parole  and 
interfered. 

In  his  ninetieth  year  Henry  was  stricken  with  an  ill- 
ness that  brought  him  to  the  edge  of  an  untimely  grave. 
He  took  the  visitation  as  a  warning  and  sent  out  mes- 
sengers to  bring  back  the  wife  he  had  divorced.  Agnes 
was  found,  so  legend  has  it,  not  far  from  Siegfroid's 
chateau  and  brought  without  delay  to  the  bedside  of  the 
blind  Henry.    The  reconciliation  was  complete. 

A  year  later  a  daughter  blessed  their  union, — Erme- 
sinde,  who  was  destined  to  bring  renown  to  her  country 
and  trouble  to  her  parents.    Henry  withdrew  his  promise 

80 


PATHS  OF  GLORY 

that  Baudoin  should  succeed  him  and  the  Count  of 
Hainaut  took  up  arms  by  way  of  protest. 

Henry  the  Blind  at  ninety-seven  found  that  he  was 
not  so  young  as  he  used  to  be.  Warfare  tired  him  and 
he  lacked  the  genius  for  strategic  manoeuver  that  had 
made  him  a  fearsome  power  in  his  earlier  days.  He 
proceeded  against  Baudoin  with  a  coalition  of  loyal 
princes  and  was  decisively  defeated  at  Noville  sur 
Mehaigne. 

Baudoin  took  over  the  County  of  Namur.  Luxemburg, 
however,  remained  the  fief  of  the  Emperor  Henry  VL 

Henry  retired  to  the  abbey  at  Echternach  to  prepare 
for  death,  which  overtook  him  there  two  years  later. 

The  Countess  Agnes  remained  with  her  daughter  until 
Ermesinde  was  ten  years  old.  Then  she  disappeared. 
Prosaic  historians  say  that  her  body  was  laid  beside  that 
of  her  spouse  at  Echternach.  Legend,  ever  more  ready 
with  explanation,  refers  again  to  the  fairy  Melusine. 

It  was  Melusine,  say  those  who  tell  the  story,  who 
came  to  Henry's  bedside  when  he  was  calling  for  Agnes. 
It  was  Melusine,  in  the  form  of  the  divorced  countess, 
who  returned  to  become  the  mother  of  Ermesinde, — a 
scandalous  story  but  a  deed  in  keeping  with  the  airy, 
fairy  conscience  of  Melusine. 

Ermesinde  came  to  the  throne,  a  baby,  at  a  time  when 
Luxemburg  had  fallen  upon  evil  days.  It  appeared  that 
despite  the  interference  of  Melusine  the  country  that 

81 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Siegfroid  had  founded  was  doomed  to  fall  to  the  first 
aggressor.  But  Ermesinde's  fairy  and  exceptional  gifts 
of  intelligence  did  not  desert  her. 

She  was  married  when  fourteen  years  old  to  Thibaut 
of  Bar — to-day  Bar-le-Duc — who  set  about  to  restore  to 
Luxemburg  the  territories  lost  through  the  gay  policies 
of  the  late  Henry.  After  some  negotiations  with  Henry 
VI,  Thibaut  obtained  a  renunciation  of  the  emperor's 
claim  to  the  country  upon  payment  of  a  cash  indemnity. 
He  made  war  on  Philip  the  Noble,  Baudoin's  successor, 
in  an  attempt  to  win  back  the  lost  province  of  Namur, 
and  though  he  was  unable  to  penetrate  the  citadel  of 
Namur,  he  defeated  Philip's  troops  so  decisively  that  the 
treaty  which  closed  the  war  gave  to  Ermesinde  all  of  the 
county  of  Namur  situated  east  of  the  Meuse,  as  well  as 
her  lost  properties  in  Durbuy  and  Laroche. 

Ermesinde  was  only  eighteen  years  old  when  Thibaut 
died,  but  by  that  time  she  had  learned  the  ins  and  outs  of 
government.  She  was  married  a  year  later  to  Waleran 
of  Limbourg,  who  brought  to  her  as  a  wedding-present 
the  district  of  Arlon.  From  this  acquisition  dates  the 
bilingual  nature  of  the  duchy,  for  it  gave  to  Luxemburg 
two  distinct  sections,  the  German  on  the  east  and  the 
Walloon  on  the  west. 

Waleran  died  in  1225,  at  which  time  Ermesinde  was 
twenty-eight  years  old  and  a  match  for  the  dozens  of 

82 


PATHS  OF  GLORY 

petty  rulers  who  turned  covetous  eyes  toward  her 
patrimony. 

She  instituted  many  reforms,  founded  convents  and 
abbeys  at  Clairfontaine,  Useldange,  Luxemburg,  Mari- 
enthal,  Bonnevoie,  and  Differdange,  established  a  cabi- 
net and  council  of  state  through  the  appointment  of 
vassal  knights  to  portfolios  similar  to  those  of  the  court 
of  France,  enfranchised  a  number  of  cities,  increased  the 
privileges  of  the  bourgeoisie  in  the  courts  and  in  their 
relations  with  the  seigneurs  of  their  communities,  lowered 
taxes,  and  established  a  universal  military  responsibility 
whereby  all  males  able  to  carry  arms  were  subject  to  call. 

Under  Ermesinde  the  County  of  Luxemburg  enjoyed 
one  of  the  most  prosperous  periods  in  its  history.  She 
died  in  1247,  at  the  age  of  fifty-one  years,  and  was  buried 
at  Clairfontaine,  the  abbey  which  legend  says  she  built  at 
the  direction  of  Our  Lady  herself. 

Henry  Blondel,  her  son,  succeeded  her  and  made  a  bit 
of  history  and  tradition  on  his  own  account.  He  went 
to  the  crusades  with  St.  Louis,  added  to  the  fame  and 
fortune  of  Luxemburg  in  his  own  neighborhood  and 
farther  afield,  and  returned  home  to  become  a  sort  of 
militant  pacifist  who  preferred  the  plowshare  to  the 
sword  but  kept  his  war-horse  saddled  and  his  battle-ax 
handy. 

Under  his  administration  occurred  the  Great  War  of 
the   Cow, — the  guerre  de  vaclie  of  a   dozen   legends. 

83 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Unfortunately  this  war  was  not,  as  its  name  might  imply, 
a  war  fought  between  cows.  The  cow  served  merely  as 
a  cause  and  thirty  thousand  men  died  in  a  three-cornered 
conflict  to  prove  her  status. 

Tradition  says  that  a  farmer  of  Namur  stole  the  cow 
from  a  resident  of  Ciney  in  the  Principality  of  Liege. 
The  Count  of  Namur  refused  to  permit  the  extradition  of 
the  peasant  and  the  Bishop  of  Liege  mustered  his 
burghers  for  an  attack.  The  Count  of  Namur  appealed 
to  his  father-in-law,  Henry  Blondel  of  Luxemburg,  for 
aid  and  for  three  years  (1275-78)  the  argument  over  the 
cow  continued.  Thirty  villages  and  fourteen  castles 
were  burned.  In  the  meantime  the  thieving  peasant  had 
been  executed.  Luxemburg's  personal  contribution  to 
this  zoological  controversy  was  fifteen  thousand  lives. 

Henry  \T,  eldest  son  of  Henry  Blondel,  known  by  the 
picturesque  if  giddy  title  of  Henry  the  Damned,  got  into 
trouble  at  the  start  of  his  reign  by  establishing  a  tollhouse 
on  the  Moselle  to  the  discomfiture  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Treves. 

There  was  nothing  particularly  new  in  this  venture. 
It  had  been  tried  repeatedly  before.  Like  the  Panama 
Canal  tolls  of  more  recent  memory,  it  was  a  prolific  source 
of  trouble.  Imposts  on  Moselle  shipments  gave  promise 
of  an  excellent  revenue  to  Luxemburg  and  at  the  same 
time  of  a  speedy  end  to  the  commerce  which  was  the  life 
of  Treves. 

84 


PATHS  OF  GLORY 

The  Archbishop  of  Treves  called  upon  Henry  to  re- 
move his  custom-house.  Henry  declined  and  was  excom- 
municated, hence  his  cheerful  title. 

Later  he  kidnapped  the  Bishop  of  Liege,  for  causes 
concerning  which  historians  do  not  agree,  and  held  him 
prisoner  six  months  in  a  dungeon  until  he  had  paid  a 
substantial  ransom. 

In  view  of  his  pleasant  disposition,  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  he  became  involved  in  a  war  of  con- 
siderable proportions. 

After  various  changing  connections — one  of  which  had 
been  with  the  County  of  Luxemburg — the  Duchy  of 
Limbourg  was  claimed  in  1283  by  Renaud  of  Gueldre, 
husband  of  the  Duchess  Ermengarde — whose  death  pre- 
cipitated the  controversy — and  Adolphe  of  Berg,  Ermen- 
garde's  cousin  by  marriage. 

The  claimants,  with  the  wisdom  born  of  experience  in 
the  fruitlessness  of  such  arguments,  promptly  sold  their 
"rights"  and  let  the  purchasers  fight  out  the  question  of 
succession.  Adolphe  marketed  his  claim  to  John,  Duke 
of  Brabant.  Renaud,  supported  by  the  Archbishop  of 
Cologne,  retired  in  favor  of  Henry  of  Luxemburg  and 
his  brother  Waleran  of  Ligny. 

Every  prince  in  the  lower  Rhine  country.  Northern 
Lorraine,  and  Bergundy  invited  himself  to  a  place  in  the 
inevitable  fight  that  followed.  The  principal  alignments 
were  Renaud,  the  Archbishop  of  Cologne,  and  the  two 

85 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Luxemburg  brothers  on  one  side,  the  Duke  of  Brabant 
and  the  fiefs  of  Bergundy  on  the  other. 

The  armies,  which  were  two  of  the  largest  that  had 
met  on  any  European  field  since  the  overthrow  of  the 
Roman  dynasty,  established  contact  on  the  plains  of 
Woeringen  near  Cologne,  the  flower  of  medieval  chivalry 
was  present  for  the  grand  clash  and  the  Rhineland  wit- 
nessed a  stupendous  pageant  on  a  tragic  scale.  Woerin- 
gen was  one  of  the  most  spectacular  battle-fields  in 
European  history, — a  great  plain  across  which,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach,  squadrons  of  armored  men  on  splen- 
didly accoutred  chargers  dashed  against  one  another  with 
sword  and  lance — a  colorful  cinema  of  death.  It  was 
also  one  of  the  bloodiest,  for  some  historians  place  the 
loss  during  three  hours  of  fighting  at  twenty  thousand 
men. 

Henry  the  Damned  fought  like  the  fiend  that  tradition 
declared  him  to  be.  He  continually  sought  the  forefront 
of  the  battle  for  a  hand-to-hand  encounter  with  the  Duke 
of  Brabant,  determined  to  settle  with  a  personal  argu- 
ment the  debate  over  the  Limbourg  succession.  Three 
times  they  met.  Three  times  they  were  separated  in  the 
terrible  milling  of  horses  and  men. 

They  met  a  fourth  time,  hurled  together  by  a  sudden 
veering  in  the  currents  of  the  attack,  and  brought  their 
deadly  joust  to  fitting  climax. 

86 


PATHS  OF  GLORY 

Henry  was  unhorsed,  but  in  falling  struck  the  Duke 
of  Brabant  with  his  lance  and  unseated  him. 

The  battle  might  still  have  gone  on  had  not  a  retainer 
of  the  duke  seized  the  opportunity,  as  Henry  lay  stunned, 
to  drive  a  sword  through  a  joint  in  his  armor  into  his 
back.    Brabant  cried  out  in  protest,  but  too  late. 

"Dog  I"  he  shouted  to  his  unfortunate  vassal.  "You 
have  this  day  killed  the  bravest  warrior  in  all  Europe." 
He  swung  to  his  horse  and  once  more  the  battle  surged 
to  and  fro  over  the  plain.  Waleran  also  was  slain  in  the 
fighting,  but,  like  most  conflicts  of  its  sort,  the  hacking 
and  slashing  continued  after  the  principal  cause  had 
been  removed.  Henry's  body,  mashed  by  the  iron  shoes 
of  the  horses,  was  unrecognizable  and  found  a  grave  in 
common  with  the  others  of  the  twenty  thousand  on  the 
red  field  under  the  open  sky  where  the  vultures  were 
already  circling. 

The  royal  line  of  Luxemburg  came  close  to  extinction 
that  day,  for  Henry  of  Houffalize  and  Baudoin,  brothers 
of  the  count,  also  fell  under  the  maces  and  lances  of  the 
Brabanqon  cavaliers. 

"Their  valiance  and  their  glorious  death  brought  high 
honor  and  renown  to  the  chivalry  of  Luxemburg,"  says 
Herchen.  "The  death  of  Henry  ended  the  war  (though 
not  the  battle  itself)  and  Limbourg  was  the  prize  of 
triumph  for  the  Duke  of  Brabant." 

Perhaps  no  battle  in  all  the  red  annals  of  the  middle 

87 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ages  could  so  well  have  served  as  the  model  for  that  later 
conflict  which  prompted  little  Peterkin's  query:  "What 
good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Henry  VII  was  only  seventeen  years  old  when  his 
father's  imperfect  armor-plate  cost  him  his  claim  to  Lim- 
bourg  and  his  life  at  a  single  sword  stroke.  His  mother, 
Beatrix  of  Avesnes,  administered  the  affairs  of  the  county 
until  he  had  attained  his  majority.  During  the  four 
years  of  his  preparation  for  the  throne  he  was  instructed 
in  the  arts  of  war  and  is  said  to  have  entertained  ambi- 
tions to  pay  the  Duke  of  Brabant  for  the  memory  of 
Woeringen. 

But  the  medieval  overlord  was  a  strange  creature. 
His  wars  usually  were  merely  quarrels  and  all  his  quar- 
rels were  wars.  Where  later  two  gentlemen  engaged  in 
a  dispute  of  a  serious  sort  might  have  applied  for  a  judg- 
ment of  God  in  the  form  of  a  duel,  and  in  present  times 
the  pair  might  settle  their  differences  in  a  fist  fight,  the 
knights  of  the  middle  ages  could  not  exchange  person- 
alities without  involving  everybody  in  the  neighborhood. 
Serfs  were  cheap  and  armies  readily  recruited.  Battles 
were  fought  without  basis  and  the  bloody  results  of  them 
cheerfully  forgotten. 

So  it  was  with  Woeringen.  While  Henry  was  learn- 
ing from  his  mother  the  gentle  arts  of  sword-made  gov- 
ernment, the  Duke  of  Brabant  and  Renaud  of  Gueldre 
were  patching  up  their  differences.     Presently  the  duke 

88 


PATHS  OF  GLORY 

made  similar  overtures  to  the  widow  of  Henry  VI.    The 

outcome  of  this  treaty  was  that  all  the  Limbourg  con- 
testants still  alive  forgave  one  another  with  a  magna- 
nimity that  had  little  effect  upon  the  status  of  the  twenty 
thousand  dead  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  and  Henry 
VII  married  Marguerite,  the  daughter  of  his  father's 
enemy. 

Henry  VII  took  over  the  government  in  1292.  He 
began  inauspiciously  by  setting  out  to  acquire  a  curse 
similar  to  that  visited  upon  his  illustrious  father.  He 
built  a  new  tollhouse  on  an  island  in  the  Moselle  and 
resurrected  the  ancient  argument  with  the  clergy  of 
Treves. 

This  time  he  supported  his  tariff  policy  by  invading 
the  Treverian  territory.  He  burned  a  path  from  the 
Moselle  boundary  of  Luxemburg  to  the  west  and  visited 
his  knightly  wrath  upon  such  vassals  of  Treves  as 
attempted  to  oppose  him.  Then  the  war  came  to  an  end 
with  an  anticlimax.  The  reconciliation  was  effected 
before  instead  of  after  the  principal  encounter.  The  com- 
batants of  both  armies  threw  down  their  arms  before 
Treves  and  rushed  into  one  another's  embrace.  The 
bishops  of  Treves  admitted  Henry  to  the  city  as  they 
might  have  admitted  any  other  distinguished  guest  and 
offered  him  a  treaty  whereby  the  long-disputed  rights  of 
Moselle  navigation,  imposts,  and  indemnities  were 
amicably  settled.    It  was  a  great  surprise  to  the  gentry  of 

89 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  period.  Why  either  side  should  seek  to  avoid  a  war 
when  such  an  excellent  opportunity  offered  was  a  little 
beyond  the  philosophy  of  the  Rhineland. 

Thanks  to  his  father's  reputation  and  his  own  graces, 
Henry  VII  was  chosen,  in  1308,  King  of  the  Romans  and 
head  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  and  appears  in  subse- 
quent history  as  Emperor  Henry  VI.  Historians  gener- 
ally concede  him  to  have  been  of  an  intelligence  and 
justice  far  in  advance  of  his  times. 

In  one  respect  at  least  he  is  remarkable  to  moderns. 
He  established  so  efficient  a  police  force  in  Luxemburg 
that,  despite  the  disorderly  tendencies  of  the  age,  crime 
was  reduced  to  a  minimum.  Theft  disappeared  so  com- 
pletely that  Henry  throughout  his  reign  held  himself 
ready  to  reimburse  out  of  his  own  treasury  all  victims  of 
robbery. 

As  emperor  one  of  his  first  official  acts  was  to  convey  to 
his  son  John  the  Kingdom  of  Bohemia,  which,  it  is  whis- 
pered, he  had  no  right  to  cede.  Bohemia  was  in  a  state 
of  anarchy  and  the  Bohemians  were  not  much  concerned 
with  the  nationality  or  identity  of  their  ruler, so  long  as 
some  one  actually  gave  them  a  government. 

John  married  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia,  daughter  of 
Wenceslaus  III,  a  Bohemian  ruler  who  had  been  assas- 
sinated by  an  admiring  subject.  This  strengthened  his 
claim  to  the  throne  and  thereafter  he  successfully  com- 
bated all  movements  to  depose  him. 

90 


PATHS  OF  GLORY 

Henry  abdicated  as  Count  of  Luxemburg  in  favor 
of  John  and  departed  for  Italy,  where  he  contracted  the 
malarial  fever  that  killed  him.  Despite  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  man  of  talent  and  an  emperor  fitted  for  his  office, 
his  death  was  a  matter  of  only  passing  concern  to  his 
people.  His  son  John,  the  greatest  adventurer  and 
swashbuckler  of  his  age,  had  already  begun  to  make 
romance,  and  it  is  natural  for  countries  as  for  individuals 
to  prefer  romance  to  the  matter-of-fact  usefulness  of 
history  in  the  building. 


91 


CHAPTER  VII 
JOHN  THE  BLIND 


The  Wandering  King  of  Bohemia 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his   back  to   the   field   and  his   feet 

to  the  foe, 
And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look   proudly  to  heaven   from   death-bed 

of  fame. 

— Campbell. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOHN  THE  BLIND 

JOHN  THE  BLIND  was  a  stormy  petrel  of  trouble. 
He  spent  little  of  his  time  at  home,  for  in  his  day 
the  scenes  of  war  were  elsewhere.  A  born  fighting- 
man  was  John,  with  a  sword  that  was  never  more  than 
half  sheathed,  and  a  disposition  that  adapted  itself  more 
readily  to  the  hardships  of  a  campaign  than  to  the  com- 
paratively luxurious  pursuits  of  peace. 

John  sought  to  prepare  the  way  for  his  own  election  to 
the  throne  of  empire  by  personal  advertising  and  he 
narrowly  missed  his  goal. 

His  black  plume  was  to  the  forefront  in  the  sangumary 
disputes  with  the  Saracens.  He  was  an  exponent  of 
Christianity  militant  in  Egypt.  He  was  a  power  and  a 
terror  in  the  little  wars  that  enveloped  Bohemia,  and  he 
swung  an  energetic  mace  in  Flanders  and  Bergundy. 

No  other  character  in  history  approaches  more  closely 
the  ideal  of  the  medieval  chevalier,  fighting  other  peo- 
ple's battles  while  his  own  country  groaned  under  the 
burden  of  his  expenses,  ever  seeking  wrongs  to  right  and 
in  the  process  making  a  few  that  despaired  of  righting, 
brave  to  the  point  of  fanaticism,  a  religious  zealot,  a 
gentle  knight,  and  a  merciless  killer.     It  seems  to  have 

95 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

been  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  middle  ages  that  men 
should  be  made  up  of  such  diverse  instincts.  John  ap- 
pears to  have  been  all  things  to  all  men. 

He  did  nothing  for  Luxemburg  except  choose  it  as  his 
birthplace.  He  was  known  as  the  King  of  Bohemia 
rather  than  as  the  Count  of  Luxemburg.  He  sold  much 
of  his  domain  to  pay  his  expenses  in  adding  to  the  fiefs  of 
a  friendly  prince.  He  raised  the  taxes  of  his  own  people 
that  he  might  lower  those  of  strangers. 

But  for  some  reason  Luxemburg  worshiped  him  as  it 
has  worshiped  no  other  ruler.  His  subjects  felt  that  they 
shared  in  the  glory  of  his  achievements.  They  enshrined 
him  as  a  native  son  upholding  the  honor  of  his  race 
among  distant  peoples.  Of  all  the  figures  in  the  duchy's 
variegated  and  multiform  traditions,  he  is  still  supreme. 

There  is  a  pathetic  strain  in  the  romance  of  John  of 
Bohemia.  His  eyesight  began  to  fail  shortly  after  he 
attained  his  throne.  From  that  time  until  the  day  of  his 
death,  his  career  was  one  long  pilgrimage  from  battle- 
field to  physician  and  from  savant  to  battle-field.  He 
did  not  allow  his  personal  afflictions  to  interfere  with  his 
business  of  war,  but  he  dreaded  the  approaching  darkness 
more  than  the  thrust  of  a  lance  or  the  crash  of  a  battle-ax. 

An  Arabian  physician  of  remarkable  reputation  treated 
John's  left  eye.  The  treatment  had  prompt  results.  The 
prince  could  barely  see  with  it  when  he  consulted  the 
Arabian,     After  four  applications  of  secret  herbs  and 

96 


> 


13 
■3 


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en 

(—1 

o 
o 


o  o 


U 


£.^mgrtr   z\^  ^ 


Pi 


JOHN  THE  BLIND 

the  usual  accompaniment  of  mystic  incantation,  the  sight 
of  the  eye  was  completely  gone. 

John  took  the  learned  physician  to  the  Oder  River  and 
threw  him  in. 

His  monocular  vision  interfered  with  his  swordsman- 
ship, but  he  did  not  allow  that  to  check  his  ambitions. 
He  went  forth  to  new  wars  and  in  between  battles  con- 
sulted surgeons,  magicians,  and  learned  monks  regarding 
the  properties  of  medicines  and  charms  that  might  help 
him  to  keep  the  remnant  of  his  sight. 

But  the  Arab's  method  had  been  thorough  and  speedily 
an  infection  developed  in  the  right  eye.  The  lure  of  the 
field  of  arms  was  passing  for  John  of  Bohemia.  The 
panoply  of  mailed  foot-men,  the  gleam  of  the  sun  upon 
the  shields  of  the  cavaliers — wonderful  pageant  of  a 
glorious  barbarity — were  fast  becoming  mere  streaks  of 
light  against  a  deepening  gray,  seen  by  the  warrior-king 
only  with  exquisite  pain.  He  went  as  a  last  resort  to  a 
Bergundian  scientist. 

The  work  of  the  monk  who  applied  the  soothing  decoc- 
tions was  quite  as  good  as  that  of  the  Arab  but  no  better. 
John  discovered  one  morning  that  he  would  never  again 
see  the  break  of  day.  He  would  never  again  be  counted 
a  formidable  swordsman.    He  would  never  be  emperor. 

The  tragic  climax  of  John's  history  is  better  known. 

Blind,  almost  helpless,  but  a  warrior  still,  he  rode 

97 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

forth  to  meet  the  English  on  the  plains  of  Crecy,  to  help 
his  friend  of  many  campaigns,  Philip  VI  of  France. 

His  retainers  escorted  him  forward  to  the  center  of  the 
battle  line  and  shouted  to  him  directions  for  the  wielding 
of  his  terrible  sword.  Pressed  back  by  the  troops  of 
Edward  III,  they  called  out  to  him  to  save  himself,  but 
John  scorned  the  advice. 

"It  does  not  please  God,"  he  replied,  "that  John  of 
Bohemia  should  take  flight  and  turn  his  back  to  the 
enemy." 

And  so  he  died,  weapon  in  hand,  struck  down  by  a 
foeman  whom  he  could  not  see.  All  of  his  suite  except 
two  men  died  with  him. 

A  cross  was  raised  to  his  memory  on  the  field  of  Crecy. 
His  casque  and  plumes,  found  by  the  Black  Prince  of 
Wales,  were  taken  by  the  prince  as  his  own,  a  delicate  if 
somewhat  superstitious  tribute  to  the  man  who  had  lost 
them.  John's  heraldic  device  "Ich  Dien"  became  a  part 
of  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

The  vicissitudes  of  John  after  death  are  scarcely  less 
remarkable  than  his  journeyings  in  life.  His  subsequent 
career  is  an  excellent  exposition  of  the  motives  that  drive 
ghosts  to  seek  peace  away  from  the  graves  of  their  bodies. 

On  the  morning  after  the  Battle  of  Crecy,  Edward  III 
sent  John's  body  to  Prince  Charles.  In  accordance  with 
the  blind  king's  will,  the  remains  were  taken  to  the  church 
of  Altmunster  and  laid  in  a  crypt  already  prepared  to 

98 


JOHN  THE  BLIND 

receive  them.  When  the  Abbey  of  Altmunster  was  de- 
stroyed by  the  French  revolutionists  John's  mortuary 
perigrinations  were  resumed.  He  was  taken  to  the  little 
church  in  the  Grund  of  Luxemburg  city  where  a  mon- 
ument was  placed  over  him.  Twice  after  that  his 
nomadic  bones  wandered  to  new  resting-places  in  Luxem- 
burg. In  1795,  when  the  French  stormed  the  city,  they 
were  moved  once  more  and  fell  into  the  hands  of  vandals 
who  sold  them  to  one  Boch,  a  crockery  merchant  at 
Metlach  on  the  Sarre. 

How  had  the  mighty  fallen  I  For  many  a  year  all  that 
was  left  of  the  great  John  of  Bohemia  was  exhibited  as  a 
curiosity  in  Boch's  chinaware  museum.  Frederick  IV  of 
Prussia  ended  this  desecration.  He  built  a  beautiful 
mausoleum  on  the  rocks  overlooking  the  Sarre  and  there 
the  oft-shaken  dust  of  the  blind  hero  of  Crecy  was  given 
a  suitable  shelter. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  his  more  recent  resting- 
place  will  prove  permanent.  John  probably  will  lie  here 
until  he  hears  the  trumpet  of  the  Angel  Gabriel  and  will 
find  no  new  experience  in  arising  to  answer  it. 

The  news  of  John's  death  was  received  with  a  panic  of 
sorrow  in  the  country  of  his  birth.  Word  of  the  fatal 
outcome  of  the  Battle  of  Crecy  came  to  Luxemburg  as 
the  great  tent-fair  which  he  had  instituted  was  at  the 
height  of  its  interest.  Traders  from  all  parts  of  Lorraine 
and  the  Rhineland,  from  distant  England  and  farthest 

99 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

France  had  traveled  to  Luxemburg  with  their  wares. 
Buyers  from  the  petty  courts  of  a  score  of  petty  princes 
were  present  with  well-filled  purses  to  buy  silks  for  the 
ladies  of  far-flung  castles,  Toledo  armor,  and  Indian 
jewels.  But  the  dreadful  news  spread  in  a  flash.  The 
people  went  home  and  locked  themselves  in  their  houses 
and  the  traders  folded  their  tents  and  went  away.  By 
the  title  ''Sorrowful  Kermess"  the  successor  to  this  fair 
is  known  to  this  day. 

According  to  the  will  prepared  by  John  long  before  his 
death,  the  title  to  the  County  of  Luxemburg  passed  to 
Wenceslaus,  his  younger  son.  Charles  the  older — accord- 
ing to  the  Salic  law  the  successor  to  John  in  all  his  titles — 
was  given  the  Kingdom  of  Bohemia  as  his  portion. 
John's  death,  despite  this  arrangement,  brought  about 
more  trouble  in  the  administration  of  Luxemburg. 

Wenceslaus  was  under  age.  His  brother  Charles,  who, 
thanks  to  the  reputation  and  machinations  of  his  illustri- 
ous father,  became  Emperor  of  Germany  under  the  name 
of  Charles  IV,  took  over  the  government  as  regent  and 
assumed  the  full  prerogatives  of  office,  including  the 
title,  and  then  proceeded  to  sell  as  much  of  the  territory 
as  necessary  to  provide  him  with  funds  for  his  activities 
in  the  empire. 

He  was  thorough  about  it.  Pawn,  barter,  sale,  and 
gift, — every  known  method  of  raising  money  on  property 
was  employed  by  Charles,  with  the  result  that  a  country 

100 


JOHN  THE  BLIND 

already  impoverished  through  the  spendthrift  talents  of 
John  the  Blind  became  a  bit  more  wretched. 

Charles  retained  the  throne  after  Wenceslaus  came  of 
age,  but  the  younger  brother  does  not  seem  to  have  wor- 
ried about  it.  Some  historians  argue  that  John  had  made 
a  codicil  to  his  will,  bequeathing  the  property  to  Wences- 
laus but  giving  the  right  to  sell  it  to  Charles, — an 
excellent  arrangement. 

The  country  was  not  particularly  happy  in  its  pros- 
pects in  those  days.  And  yet  it  had  seen  worse  times  and 
was  to  see  others. 

There  was  a  streak  of  the  pawnbroker  in  Charles  as 
history  represents  him.  He  was  a  modern  in  that  more 
than  any  public  figure  of  his  time  he  recognized  that  the 
ducat  is  a  useful  and  highly  satisfactory  weapon.  What 
he  wanted  he  bought,  carrying  this  policy  out  even  to  the 
purchase  of  the  German  electoral  college  and  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire  for  his  son.  The  money  he  required  for 
such  deals  in  high  finance  he  obtained  by  the  simple 
process  of  hypothecating  a  security.  That  some  of  the 
security  was  not  precisely  his  own  and  that  some  of  it 
had  been  previously  mortgaged  were  merely  the  details 
that  lifted  his  transactions  out  of  the  class  of  petty  barter 
and  trade. 

He  scorned  the  sword.  Battle  he  considered  a  form 
of  debate  wholly  unnecessary  to  a  good  salesman.  Thus 
his  reign  was  peaceful  and  marked  by  a  thorough  applica- 

101 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

tion  of  the  policy  of  amicable  adjustment  in  international 
affairs,  and  Charles  IV  was  rated  as  a  good  emperor  and 
a  shrewd  politician. 

His  influence  was  felt  to  a  larger  extent  by  the  seig- 
neurs of  the  castles  than  that  of  any  of  his  predecessors 
on  the  throne  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  He  organized 
a  "league  to  enforce  peace"  among  the  dukes  and  counts 
of  the  Moselle  and  Meuse  and  placed  his  brother  Wences- 
laus  at  the  head  of  the  association  to  stamp  out  the  out- 
lawry of  the  robber  barons  and  their  marauding  retainers. 
Here  is  the  germ  of  a  league-of-nations  idea.  It  is  inter- 
esting as  the  first  recorded  experiment  of  its  kind,  but  it 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  particularly  successful. 

As  a  tardy  compensation  for  the  financial  dilBculties 
which  he  had  brought  to  Luxemburg,  Charles  issued  a 
decree  establishing  it  as  a  duchy  and  conferring  upon  its 
rulers  the  distinguished  right  to  hold  the  emperor's  horse. 
Then,  as  was  customary  with  the  Luxemburg  nobility 
who  had  stepped  into  power  elsewhere,  he  seems  to  have 
forgotten  its  existence. 

Wenceslaus,  despite  his  handicaps,  refused  to  stay 
within  the  limitations  prescribed  by  his  advance  notices. 
He  took  over  the  title  of  duke  and  set  about  making  his 
coronet  stand  for  something.  Bit  by  bit  he  recovered 
his  lost  acres.  A  timely  marriage  brought  him  the  duchies 
of  Brabant  and  Limbourg  and  freed  the  territory  of 
Luxemburg  and  other  fiefs  from  a  plaster  of  mortgages. 

102 


JOHN  THE  BLIND 

It  was  during  his  reign  that  Luxemburg  reached  the  acme 
of  its  territorial  greatness.  Its  domains  reached  from  the 
Moselle  almost  to  the  banks  of  the  Meuse  and  from  the 
northern  Ardennes  to  the  suburbs  of  Metz.  A  represent- 
ative of  its  ruling  house  was  at  the  head  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire.  Its  vassals  were  among  the  strongest 
in  Europe.  Its  court  was  a  marvel  of  splendor  and  cul- 
ture. Its  fighting-men  were  among  the  most  highly- 
esteemed  of  all  the  trained  warrior  forces  of  a  continent. 

But  its  glories  were  not  unmixed  with  tragedy.  The 
Black  Death  ravaged  Europe  and  depopulated  the 
Ardennes.  A  tremendously  cold  winter  finished  the  work 
that  the  plague  had  started.  Famine  followed  pestilence 
and  whole  villages  disappeared.  It  is  estimated  that 
sixty  thousand  persons  lost  their  lives  in  Luxemburg 
alone,  a  serious  loss  for  a  county  so  small. 

Although  Wenceslaus  was  known  by  his  title  as  Duke 
of  Brabant  rather  than  Duke  of  Luxemburg  and  made 
his  residence  at  Brussels  instead  of  in  the  city  of  Sieg- 
froid,  he  was  not  like  other  absentee  rulers.  In  a  time  of 
national  calamity  the  duchy  could  have  had  no  better 
friend.  He  was  just,  modest,  conservative,  a  skilful 
executive,  the  sort  of  governing  head  most  needed  by  a 
people  who  had  known  too  much  of  the  jolly-good-fellow 
type  of  prince.  His  administration  gave  promise  of  bet- 
ter days  for  the  duchy. 

But  the  line  of  Siegfroid  was  riding  for  a  fall. 

103 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Wenceslaus  died  childless.  Luxemburg  passed  to 
another  Wenceslaus,  his  nephew,  the  son  of  Emperor 
Charles  IV.  Wenceslaus  II  was  the  prince  who  had 
profited  by  Charles's  purchase  of  the  German  electoral 
college.  He  had  already  succeeded  to  the  title  of  his 
dead  father  when  Luxemburg  unfortunately  fell  into  his 
hands. 

Wenceslaus  II  appears  to  have  had  little  to  make  him 
remarkable  except  a  thirst  that  distinguished  him  in  a 
court  of  two-fisted  drinking-men.  That  and  a  disposi- 
tion to  keep  his  money  in  circulation  brought  him  as  close 
to  bankruptcy  in  1388  as  a  jovial  emperor  can  be 
expected  to  get.  There  was  always  a  way  out  of  debt 
for  a  ruler  of  Luxemburg,  however.  He  promptly  sold 
the  duchy  to  his  cousin  Jost,  reserving  the  right  to  buy 
it  back.  Thus  Jost  became  in  the  parlance  peculiarly 
suited  to  this  industry  of  jobbing  in  small  kingdoms,  the 
engagiste  of  the  country.  The  property  passed  at  the 
death  of  Jost  to  Elizabeth  of  Goerlitz,  his  niece. 

Historians  generally  place  the  end  of  the  Luxemburg 
dynasty  in  1443,  thirty- two  years  after  Elizabeth  with 
her  crown  of  debts  and  her  scepter  of  mortgages  came  to 
occupy  the  throne  of  Melusine.  But  the  end  of  Luxem- 
burg as  a  nation  may  be  dated  at  the  moment  of  her 
accession. 

Whatever  the  duchy  had  lacked  in  previous  regimes, 
through  lack  of  attention  from  its  rulers,  was  more  than 

104 


JOHN  THE  BLIND 

compensated  in  the  plurality  of  governors  that  followed. 
Nobody  knows  what  Elizabeth  spent  her  money  for. 
Certainly  it  was  not  for  the  maintenance  of  her  terri- 
tory. Piece  by  piece  the  counties  and  provinces  upon 
which  she  held  a  lien  passed  into  the  hands  of  royal  or 
ecclesiastical  money-lenders,  some  of  it  for  advances 
pitifully  small. 

Wenceslaus,  deposed  by  the  German  electors,  retired 
to  Bohemia  and  died  suddenly  of  apoplexy  or  poison,  as 
you  will.  His  brother  Sigismund  fell  heir  to  his  option 
on  Luxemburg,  his  title  to  the  Kingdom  of  Bohemia  and 
eventually  to  his  throne  as  Emperor  of  the  Germans.  He 
also  inherited  a  number  of  political  woes  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  debt  of  120,000  florins  for  which  the  duchy  had 
been  pledged  seemed  a  matter  of  small  moment.  Sigis- 
mund could  not  or  would  not  raise  the  money  to  liquidate 
the  debt  and  Elizabeth  remained  engagiste  in  the  midst 
of  an  anarchy  of  her  own  manufacture. 

The  numerous  persons  to  whom  she  had  pawned  the 
duchy  began  to  press  her  for  possession,  so  she  evolved 
the  worthy  idea  of  cheating  them  all  at  once.  There  was 
only  one  person  strong  enough  to  execute  the  coup  for 
her,  for  her  husband,  a  nonentity  in  her  interesting  reign, 
had  died  of  poisoning  some  years  previously.  There  was 
but  one  hope, — her  nephew,  Philip  the  Good,  Duke  of 
Bergundy  and  Flanders,  who  was  even  then  attempting 

105 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

to    build    the    empire    later    known    as    the    United 
Netherlands. 

A  word  here,  while  the  star  of  Luxemburg  is  setting. 
Sigismund,  feeling  the  pinch  of  his  imperial  poverty,  sold 
his  rights  to  the  Province  of  Brandenburg  to  Frederick 
of  the  High  Zollern,  or  Hohenzollern,  and  thus  a  new 
family  took  its  first  step  to  power  in  the  world's  affairs. 

Had  the  disposition  of  Elizabeth  of  Goerlitz  been  a 
bit  sweeter  and  her  financial  transactions  a  bit  more 
scrupulous,  Sigismund  might  have  found  a  way  of 
redeeming  the  pledged  Duchy  of  Luxemburg,  for  it  is 
easier  to  treat  with  one  claimant  than  with  a  dozen;  and 
with  Luxemburg  redeemed  there  would  have  been  no 
necessity  for  his  transfer  of  Brandenburg  to  the  Barons 
of  the  High  Zollern.  There  is  a  subject  that  one  might 
ponder  upon  amid  the  ruins  of  Rheims  or  in  Hell's  Half 
Acre  in  front  of  Verdun. 

Sigismund  died  without  leaving  male  issue.  Albert 
of  Austria,  husband  of  Sigismund's  daughter  Elizabeth, 
was  interrupted  by  death  in  an  attempt  to  obtain  a  settle- 
ment of  the  tangled  claims  to  the  duchy. 

The  widow  of  Albert  transferred  her  rights  to  her 
kinsman  William  of  Saxony,  who  marched  upon  Luxem- 
burg with  eight  hundred  men.  The  people  rose  en  masse 
to  welcome  William  and  betrayed  their  emotional  regard 
for  the  genial  Elizabeth  of  Goerlitz  by  driving  her  be- 
yond the  walls. 

106 


JOHN  THE  BLIND 

Then  came  Philip  the  Good  from  Dijon  with  twenty- 
five  hundred  mercenaries,  a  tried  fighting-man  at  the  head 
of  as  fearless  a  band  of  cutthroats  as  ever  wielded  mace. 
The  fortress  that  Siegfroid  had  begun  might  have  with- 
stood the  armies  of  Europe  in  open  conflict,  but  it  was 
no  protection  to  the  followers  of  William  against 
treachery. 

Philip's  soldiers  were  in  the  darkened  streets  of  the 
capital  before  the  defending  garrison  suspected  that  they 
had  left  Dijon.  So  the  wonderful  story  of  medieval 
Luxemburg  came  to  an  end  in  rapine  and  pillage.  Booty 
for  the  mercenaries,  a  sop  of  money  for  William  of 
Saxony,  an  annuity  for  the  illustrious  Elizabeth,  a  new 
pawn  in  an  imperial  chess  game  for  Philip  the  Good. 

What  an  end  for  a  romance  that  began  with  Melusine ! 


107 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SWORD  AND  TORCH 


The  Emperor  Charles  Quint 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 

— James  Shirley. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SWORD  AND  TORCH 

WITH  the  coming  of  gunpowder  and  artillery 
the  styles  in  castles  had  changed.  True,  the 
handsomely  engraved  bronze  guns  of  the 
period  were  not  particularly  dangerous.  Their  range  was 
short,  their  aim  inaccurate,  and  their  effectiveness  some- 
thing less  than  might  be  considered  worth  the  trouble  of 
dragging  them  with  an  army.  But  the  wily  barons  of 
the  crags  saw  in  the  coming  of  the  cannon  the  doom  of 
walled  citadels.  They  realized  several  centuries  earlier 
than  did  the  builders  of  the  gun-emplacements  at  Liege, 
Dinant,  and  Namur,  the  inevitable  superiority  of  explo- 
sives over  fortification. 

Their  conviction  that  no  man-made  rock  pile  could 
long  withstand  the  battering  of  solid  shot  brought  with 
it  the  realization  that  castles  might  be  made  comfortable 
dwelling-places  as  well  as  strongholds.  This  new  policy 
brought  massive  buildings  of  architectural  worth, — 
among  them  Beaufort  with  its  finished  masonry,  Schoen- 
fels,  and  the  new  Ansembourg.  But  it  substituted  no 
new  means  of  defense  for  the  old.  The  ancient  and 
modern  continued  to  perch  on  hill  and  in  hollow  as  if 

111 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

undecided  as  to  what  preparation  they  had  better  make 
for  the  test  between  gunpowder  and  stone  that  was  cer- 
tain to  come.  The  ruins  tell  the  story  of  the  failure  of 
the  grafs  to  solve  the  problem. 

The  story  of  Luxemburg  from  the  time  of  the  accession 
of  Philip  to  its  next  incarnation  as  an  independent  nation 
is  largely  the  story  of  other  countries  and  alien  rulers  who 
had  advanced  further  in  the  science  of  destruction  than 
had  the  Low  Countries  in  the  art  of  building. 

It  is  a  story  of  oppression,  suffering,  undying  national 
pride,  and  gentle  forbearance, — an  epic  in  itself  that  can 
be  treated  here  only  in  briefest  outline.  Philip  the  Good, 
better  known  to  the  Luxemburgers  as  Philip  of  the  Long 
Legs,  seems  to  have  merited  the  title  descriptive  of  his 
high  moral  qualities  in  much  the  same  fashion  as  many 
a  ward  heeler  of  later  days  has  come  to  be  known  as 
"Honest  John." 

He  undid  most  of  the  work  of  enfranchisement  done 
by  Ermesinde  in  the  dawning  of  the  country's  existence. 
A  board  of  governors  was  substituted  for  the  sovereign 
in  the  administration  of  the  duchy,  and  Luxemburg 
became  an  integral  part  of  the  possessions  of  Bergundy. 

Charles  the  Bold  succeeded  Philip  and  proceeded  to 
carry  out  his  dream  of  empire.  He  hoped  to  complete  the 
solidification  of  his  wide  domains  by  harassing  France  in 
upsetting  the  alliances  of  Louis  XI  with  the  house  of 

112 


MAIN    ENTRANCE    OF    THE    SIXTEENTH    CENTURY    CHATEAU 

Three  of  the  four  "  parts  of  the  world  "  struggling  against  the  shackles  of  the  oppressor  are 
seen  in  the  colonnade.     The  building  was  rebuilt  in  its  present  form  in  1719 


THE    GARDEN 

"NEW"   CHATEAU  ANSEMBOURG 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

York.  He  made  one  fatal  error,  however :  he  took  in  too 
much  territory.  Instead  of  starting  ofF  for  England  while 
the  disorganized  Lancastrians  still  were  willing  to  renew 
the  War  of  the  Roses,  he  delayed  to  "punish"  the  Swiss 
confederates  for  a  fancied  affront  and  to  wrest  Lorraine 
from  Rene,  the  troubadour  king. 

Charles  suffered  three  principal  defeats.  He  died  at 
Nancy,  whether  as  the  result  of  wounds  received  in  battle 
or  an  execution  at  the  hands  of  the  Vehmgericht — that 
great  Ku-Klux  Klan  of  the  Rhine,  dreaded  by  high  and 
low  alike  in  the  days  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire — is 
still  a  matter  of  dispute  among  those  who  find  the  point 
worth  arguing. 

With  the  fall  of  Charles  the  Bold,  grim  anticlimax  to 
a  melodrama  of  empire,  there  fell  also  the  last  barrier  in 
the  march  of  France  to  destiny.  Charles's  disappearance 
from  the  European  arena  definitely  aligned  the  peoples 
of  France  against  the  peoples  of  Germany  in  a  titanic 
struggle  for  dominance,  and  it  was  purely  as  a  factor  in 
this  endless  contest  that  the  rock  of  Luxemburg  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  envious  contenders. 

Each  decade  was  adding  to  its  strength,  each  year  was 
increasing  its  menace  to  the  peace  of  Europe.  An  im- 
perial Germany  could  not  afford  to  have  a  French  Gibral- 
tar at  its  frontiers.  A  growing,  ambitious,  and  valorous 
France  could  not  sleep  securely  at  night  if  a  German 
banner  floated  over  the  Bock. 

113 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

The  strategic  importance  of  Luxemburg  at  that  time 
is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  neither  Germany  nor  France 
coveted  it  so  much  as  a  useful  possession,  but  each  craved 
possession  to  keep  the  other  from  getting  it.  And  so 
came  wars, — wars  innumerable,  bloody  and  inexcusable. 

Marie  of  Burgundy,  a  girl  still  in  her  teens,  succeeded 
the  redoubtable  Charles,  her  father.  Louis  XI  sought  to 
annex  her  possession  by  betrothing  her  to  his  son.  But 
she  had  a  mind  of  her  own,  a  mind  already  formed  so  far 
as  Louis  and  his  royal  house  were  concerned.  She  refused 
his  offer  and  married  Maximilian  I  of  Austria,  later  em- 
peror of  Germany.  She  foresaw  the  inevitable  result  and 
strengthened  the  Great  Rock  with  a  number  of  walls  and 
towers. 

While  the  improvement  was  in  progress  Maximilian 
took  up  arms  to  defend  the  territory  of  his  wife  and 
carried  the  argument  to  Louis  by  invading  Hainaut,  then 
in  the  hands  of  the  French.  He  would  have  gone  on  into 
France  itself  had  not  Louis  sued  for  an  armistice  ( 1478) . 

A  year  later  Marie's  foresight  was  vindicated  when  the 
Duke  of  Amboise  at  the  head  of  a  French  army  suddenly 
appeared  at  Luxemburg,  The  French  succeeded  in 
breaching  the  walls,  but  were  stopped  by  the  cannon  with 
which  the  place  bristled.  In  the  meantime  Maximilian 
and  his  forces  came  to  the  rescue  of  the  beleaguered  capi- 
tal by  night  and  day  marches.    Amboise  manoeuvered  for 

114 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

position  in  "the  green  valley"  near  Mersch.  Maximilian 
attacked  and  defeated  him. 

A  fall  from  a  horse  on  a  hunting  expedition  caused 
Marie's  death  shortly  after  the  beginning  of  her  promis- 
ing reign,  but  not  before  she  had  restored  many  of  the 
privileges  taken  from  the  Luxemburgers  by  Philip  the 
Good  of  the  long  legs,  and  Charles  the  Bold. 

Marie's  son,  afterward  known  as  Philip  the  Fair,  was 
only  four  years  old  at  the  time  of  her  unfortunate  acci- 
dent. He  was  brought  up  under  the  regency  of  Maxi- 
milian and  married  at  sixteen  years  to  Jeanne,  daughter 
of  two  monarchs  whose  names  stand  at  the  beginning  of 
American  history,  Ferdinand  of  Aragon  and  Isabella  of 
Castile.  That  was  four  years  after  Isabella  had  pawned 
her  jewels  and  Jeanne  was  rated  as  the  wealthiest  heiress 
in  Europe, — how  wealthy  no  one  in  the  Old  World  could 
have  realized,  for  the  vastness  of  Christopher  Columbus's 
discovery  was  unknown  even  to  Christopher  himself. 

But,  however  good  this  match  was  for  Philip,  it  was 
unlucky  for  Luxemburg.  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  died 
and  Philip  the  Fair  chose  Spain,  of  all  his  possessions,  as 
his  own  residence  and  capital.  The  duchy  and  Belgium 
were  placed  under  the  administration  of  a  governor- 
general.  Philip  died  shortly  thereafter,  his  wife  lost  her 
mind  in  grieving  for  him,  and  his  vast  heritage  passed  to 
his  son,  the  able  Charles  V,  a  Hapsburg,  whose  advent 
to  power  at  the  time  of  the  reformation  foredoomed  him 

115 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

to  a  dubious  position  in  the  eyes  of  latter-day  historians. 

Charles  V  is  either  a  blood-stained  bigot  or  defender 
of  the  faith,  a  war-mad  zealot  or  a  militant  advocate  of 
peace,  a  poseur  or  a  hero,  a  strong  supporter  of  ideals  and 
the  law  or  a  tyrant  who  recognized  no  law  save  his  own 
stubborn  will,  depending  upon  the  point  of  view  of  the 
historian  who  tells  about  him.  Whatever  his  talents  or 
his  faults,  he  painted  his  career  with  a  wide  brush  and  the 
world  remembers  him. 

He  was  twenty  years  old  when  he  was  elected  Emperor 
of  Germany  and  he  brought  to  his  new  task  a  number  of 
political  ideas  that  made  trouble  for  him.  For  one,  he 
felt  that  although  he  was  ruler  of  Germany,  he  himself 
was  a  Spaniard.  For  another,  he  was  a  foe  of  compro- 
mise. These  two  traits,  plus  his  faith  in  the  old  church 
as  opposed  to  the  creed  of  Luther,  paved  the  way  for  the 
Thirty  Years'  War  that  from  1618  to  1648  made  Europe 
a  shambles. 

Charles  kept  a  more  watchful  eye  upon  Luxemburg 
than  had  the  other  emperor-dukes  of  her  history.  He  has 
been  rated  by  Motley  as  one  of  the  most  skilful  generals 
of  his  time  and  as  such  was  fully  aware  of  the  importance 
of  the  fortress  on  the  Alzette.  He  strengthened  it  until 
it  seemed  to  have  approached  the  ideal  of  impregnability, 
but  Francis  I  of  France  overturned  his  work  in  1542  with 
an  army  under  the  command  of  the  dukes  of  Orleans  and 
Guise.    The  imperial  armies  took  it  back,  however,  and 

116 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

except  for  a  few  thousand  negligible  halberdiers  and 
lancers  killed,  the  status  quo  ante  was  restored. 

It  was  during  the  reign  of  Charles  V  that  William  de 
la  Marck,  the  "Wild  Boar  of  the  Ardennes,"  made  his 
noisome  debut  in  the  affairs  of  Luxemburg.  Feared, 
hated,  loathed,  this  wild  boar  exercised  a  power  over  the 
northwestern  part  of  the  province  little  short  of  that  of 
a  king.  The  other  robber  knights  of  his  vicinity  recog- 
nized in  him  the  sublimation  of  their  cheerful  profession 
and  accorded  him  marked  respect,  while  his  excesses  set 
a  stamp  upon  the  country-side  that  remains  to  this  day. 
It  was  he  who  betrayed  the  Low  Countries  to  the  French 
and  who  aided  the  troops  of  Francis  in  their  invasion. 
The  boar  was  hanged  later  in  his  career  as  befitted  so 
worthy  a  character. 

It  has  been  said  that  Charles's  religious  zeal  was  in 
direct  ratio  to  political  expediency  and  perhaps  the  charge 
is  well  made.  Historians  of  his  own  faith  have  declared 
that  he  would  unhesitatingly  have  supported  a  Hottentot 
for  the  papacy  if  by  doing  so  he  could  have  furthered  the 
personal  and  varied  interests  of  Charles.  He  recognized 
Protestant  coalitions  in  Germany  while  he  was  oppress- 
ing the  Protestant  Netherlands.  He  was  lenient  in  some 
districts,  an  extortioner  in  others,  and  withal  a  great  man. 
There  was  something  of  a  Charlemagne  in  him,  as  wit- 
ness his  ability  to  keep  the  reins  of  government  over  all 
of  the  civilized  world  except  England  and  a  part  of 

117 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

France.  Governments  in  feudal  times  were  unstable 
things  and  while  many  an  ambitious  vassal  aspired  to 
empire,  only  the  strong  survived  as  emperors. 

Charles  resigned  in  1555.  His  brother,  Ferdinand  I, 
became  Emperor  of  Germany,  and  his  son  Philip  II  suc- 
ceeded to  his  territories  in  the  Netherlands  and  his  castles 
in  Spain.  Charles  retired  to  the  monastery  of  Yuste  in 
the  valley  of  the  Estremadura  to  meditate  upon  the  pur- 
pose of  life  and  to  amuse  himself  in  the  manufacture  of 
clocks.    It  is  said  that  he  made  very  good  clocks. 

Philip  II  was  a  gentler  personage  than  his  father  and 
succeeded,  temporarily  at  least,  in  uniting  the  Catholic 
and  Protestant  elements  of  the  Netherlands.  But  such 
an  association  could  not  last.  William  the  Silent,  prod- 
uct of  the  house  of  Vianden,  hammered  together  from  the 
seven  northern  provinces  of  the  Netherlands  the  great 
Dutch  Republic,  and  war  that  seemed  destined  never  to 
end  began. 

Luxemburg,  free  from  taxes  which  the  Dutch  resented, 
and  in  full  sympathy  with  the  laws  governing  religious 
worship,  remained  with  the  provinces  which  may  roughly 
be  called  "Belgium,"  although  better  known  through  two 
centuries  of  subsequent  history  as  the  Spanish  Nether- 
lands. 

France  took  the  opportunity  to  strike  at  Philip  II,  who 
drew  upon  German  troops  for  aid.  Luxemburg  from 
end  to  end  became  an  armed  camp. 

118 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

As  usual  it  was  the  duchy  that  furnished  the  battle- 
fields, the  drill-grounds,  and  the  subsistence  for  most  of 
the  forces  involved.  Populations  of  whole  towns  emi- 
grated to  avoid  troops,  whether  friend  or  foe.  Artillery 
is  no  respecter  of  personal  property  and  the  buildings 
that  were  under  French  and  Dutch  fire  to-day  were  sub- 
jected to  a  no  less  thorough  bombardment  to-morrow  in 
the  counter-attacks  of  the  Spanish. 

But  during  the  hostilities  the  capital  prospered.  Spain 
was  completing  her  conquests  of  Mexico  and  Peru  and 
to  Luxemburg  city  came  the  nobles  who  had  shared  in  the 
loot,  the  nouveau  riche  of  their  day,  wealthy  beyond  the 
dreams  of  sixteenth-century  avarice  and  free  of  purse. 

Count  Mansfeld,  the  governor  of  the  duchy  for  Philip, 
built  a  castle  amid  terraces  and  gardens  in  the  valley  of 
the  Alzette  that  would  have  aroused  the  jealousy  of 
Melusine.  He  was  responsible  for  the  erection  of  a  hotel 
de  ville  in  the  style  of  the  Spanish  renaissance  seen  to-day 
as  part  of  the  grand-ducal  palace.  And  though  his  mar- 
velous chateau  is  dust  and  its  treasures  scattered,  his 
memory  is  kept  bright  at  the  capital  through  the  survival 
of  a  score  of  public  improvements  for  which  he  was 
responsible. 

Philip  II  looked  upon  his  northern  possessions  as  a 
place  of  exile  and  finally  went  back  to  Spain,  leaving  the 
government  of  Luxemburg  and  the  remainder  of  the 
Netherlands  to  his  half-sister,  Marguerite  of  Parma.    In 

119 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

1598  Philip  saw  death  approaching  and  married  his 
daughter  Isabella  to  Archduke  Albert  of  Austria,  viceroy 
of  such  of  the  Netherlands  as  remained,  and  conferred 
upon  them  full  rights  of  sovereignty  with  the  condition 
that  should  they  die  childless  the  district  should  return  to 
Spain. 

When  the  envoys  of  the  provinces  met  at  Brussels  that 
same  year,  to  do  homage  to  their  new  ruler,  the  Luxem- 
burgers  were  singularly  honored.  They  were  placed  at 
Albert's  right  hand  immediately  after  the  Knights  of  the 
Golden  Fleece  and  raised  only  one  finger  in  taking  their 
oath  of  allegiance,  whereas  the  other  delegates  were 
obliged  to  raise  two.  When  the  two-fingered  envoys 
protested  against  such  rank  favoritism  Albert  set  them  in 
their  places  with  a  scathing  rebuke. 

"You  have  nothing  to  complain  of,"  he  declared. 
*'You  have  rebelled  against  your  God  and  your  king. 
The  men  of  Luxemburg  have  remained  faithful  to  both. 
Of  their  loyalty  the  lifting  of  an  eyebrow  would  be  war- 
ranty enough  for  me." 

In  the  meantime  the  war  with  the  rebellious  Nether- 
lands continued.  Albert,  defeated  at  Nieuport,  called 
the  royalist  provinces  to  a  convention  at  Brussels  and 
demanded  funds  for  the  carrying  on  of  the  conflict.  The 
Luxemburgers  showed  an  independent  spirit,  declaring 
that  any  subsidy  they  might  vote  him  must  not  be  con- 
sidered as  a  precedent,  that  a  canvass  of  population 

120 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

should  be  completed  before  additional  taxes  were 
assessed  upon  them,  and  that  their  participation  in  the 
meeting  of  the  council  should  not  be  taken  as  indicating 
that  they  renounced  any  of  their  rights  to  individuality 
or  their  ancient  objections  to  assimilation. 

Albert  conceded  the  point.  He  was  voted  thirty 
thousand  florins  and  Luxemburg  mobilized  at  his  call  in 
Flanders  for  an  assault  upon  Ostend,  the  only  Flemish 
town  in  the  grasp  of  the  Dutch  government.  Albert 
advanced  to  besiege  the  town  and  Isabella  vowed  that 
she  would  not  change  her  chemise  until  he  met  success. 
Ostend  did  not  fall  until  three  years  later. 

Luxemburg  came  to  look  upon  Dutch  incursions  as  a 
routine  affair.  The  seigneurs  of  the  castles  to  the  north 
slept  on  their  arms  for  seven  exciting  years  and  each 
day's  record  was  carved  with  a  sword  or  branded  with 
fire.  The  fighting  came  to  an  end  with  an  armistice 
between  the  United  Provinces  of  the  Netherlands  and 
Archduke  Albert  after  fifty  years  of  continuous  civil 
warfare. 

In  the  last  year  of  the  truce  Albert  died  childless  and 
the  Netherlands  reverted  to  Spain.  Civil  strife  had  been 
raging  in  Germany  for  three  years  between  the  Catholic 
and  Protestant  coalitions  fostered  by  Charles  V.  The 
torch  was  alight  and  presently  all  Europe  was  aflame. 

The  Swedes,  the  Danes,  and  the  Dutch  swept  down 
from  the  North.    The  Swedes  were  drawn  into  the  vortex 

121 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

of  the  fight  by  Sigismund  of  Poland  in  a  controversy  over 
the  Swedish  succession,  but  presently  became  the  Protes- 
tant bulwark  under  the  able  leadership  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  father  of  artillery  tactics. 

The  Elector  of  Treves,  fearing  an  attack  by  the 
Swedes,  placed  himself  under  the  protection  of  Louis 
XIII,  King  of  France.  Cardinal  Richelieu,  the  real 
government  of  France,  despatched  French  troops  to 
Treves  and  to  numerous  other  points  along  the  Luxem- 
burg frontier,  menacing  the  great  fortress,  then  as  ever 
the  object  of  France's  covetousness. 

Count  Embden,  governor  of  the  duchy,  struck  a  sud- 
den blow  at  Treves  and  captured  the  elector,  whom  he 
turned  over  to  Philip  IV  of  Spain.  Then  Richelieu  de- 
clared war  on  Spain  and  Europe  became  a  sanguinary 
inferno  from  one  end  to  the  other.  In  1635  a  French 
army  entered  Belgium  and  joined  with  the  Dutch  com- 
manded by  Frederic  Henry  of  Nassau,  son  of  William 
the  Silent.  A  counter-blow  was  speedily  delivered  by  an 
imperial  army  under  Piccolomini  which  set  out  to  aid  the 
Spaniards  by  invading  France.  It  showed  no  favoritism, 
this  army:  in  its  march  across  Luxemburg,  a  friendly 
country,  it  sacked  Igel,  Wasserbillig,  and  Grevenmacher 
and  burned  Wormeldange,  Canach,  and  Remich. 

So  had  the  Huns  come  down  into  France.  So  did  the 
imperial  troops  of  Germany  drive  across  through  what 

122 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

is  now  the  Argonne.  And,  like  the  hordes  of  Alaric  and 
hordes  of  a  later  date,  they  finished  at  the  Marne. 

They  had  been  terrible  in  advance.  They  were  more 
frightful  than  a  plague  in  their  forced  retreat. 

Herchen  says  of  this  period : 

"It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  sufferings  with  which  our  an- 
cestors were  visited.  The  armies  of  that  period  were  nothing  more 
than  mobs  without  morals,  without  restraint,  without  discipline 
gathered  from  the  Low  Countries,  France,  Italy,  Poland,  Hungary, 
Scotland  and  Ireland,  willing  to  serve  any  one  who  would  pay  them. 
They  lived  by  rapine  and  plunder.  The  Poles  of  Colloredo  and 
the  Croats  of  Isolani,  who  made  their  winter  quarters  in  the  villages 
of  our  country,  distinguished  themselves  particularly  by  their  cruel- 
ty. The  terror  in  which  they  were  held  was  such  that  at  their  ap- 
proach the  peasants  fled  to  the  woods  or  to  the  ramparts  of  the 
fortresses.  The  fields  lay  fallow  during  1636  and  1637  and  a 
terrible  famine  was  the  inevitable  result.  If  a  report  made  by  three 
states  of  the  duchy  to  the  Council  of  State  at  Brussels  is  to  be 
believed,  the  people  subsisted  upon  a  bread  made  from  the  bones  of 
corpses  which  were  disinterred  in  the  cemeteries,  and  that  soon, 
mothers  crazed  by  hunger  killed  their  children  and  devoured  them. 
Presently  pestilence  came  to  add  to  the  terrors  of  hunger  and  war." 

A  combination  of  these  terrors  wiped  out  completely 
one  hundred  and  forty  villages  in  the  duchy  and  reduced 
numerous  others  to  the  vanishing-point. 

Even  the  Peace  of  Westphalia,  which  ended  the  Thirty 
Years'  War  in  1648,  did  not  bring  relief.  Spain  and 
France  continued  to  fight  for  eleven  more  bloody  years. 

One  stirring  incident  lends  a  high  light  to  these  dark 
days.     Louis  XIV  had  succeeded  Louis  XIII  and  was 

123 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

already  engaged  in  his  work  of  giving  France  a  place  in 
the  sun.  In  person  he  led  twenty  thousand  men  to  an 
attack  on  Montmedy,  where  he  found  himself  opposed 
by  six  hundred  young  Luxemburgers  commanded  by 
Jean  d'Allamont,  a  youth  of  Malandry.  Mortally 
wounded  by  the  explosion  of  a  bomb,  d'Allamont  sent  to 
Louis  his  handkerchief  stained  with  blood  as  a  sign  of  his 
loyalty  to  Luxemburg  even  in  death.  The  town  sur- 
rendered as  soon  as  d'Allamont  died,  but  Louis  refused 
to  enter. 

His  explanation  was  an  unforgetable  tribute  to 
heroism : 

"The  one  whom  I  would  wish  to  see  and  redeem  from 
death  even  at  the  price  of  the  lives  of  two  thousand 
French  soldiers  is  no  more." 

The  Peace  of  the  Pyrenees  (1659)  ended  the  struggle 
between  France  and  Spain  and  brought  about  the  first 
mutilation  of  the  duchy.  By  the  terms  of  the  settlement, 
France  received  Thionville,  Montmedy,  Damvilliers, 
Chavancy,  and  Marville.  Still  the  Grand  Monarch  was 
not  satisfied.  He  realized  that  the  towns  and  districts 
which  he  had  been  ceded  were  unimportant  outposts, 
menaced  so  long  as  the  great  rock  on  the  Alzette  remained 
in  alien  hands. 

He  found  an  excuse  for  an  attack  in  1679,  through  an 
interpretation  of  the  treaty  of  the  Pyrenees  which  pro- 
vided that  the  "dependencies"  of  the  Luxemburg  dis- 

124 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

tricts  ceded  to  him  should  be  conveyed  with  the  cities.  It 
was  evidently  meant  that  the  "dependencies"  referred  to 
were  those  in  existence  at  the  date  of  the  treaty,  but  Louis 
decided  otherwise.  He  set  a  commission  to  investigating 
the  historical  connections  of  his  lately  acquired  terri- 
tories and  discovered,  despite  the  protests  of  the 
Spaniards,  that  Montmedy,  Thionville,  etc.,  had  brought 
him  as  fiefs  virtually  all  the  other  cities  in  Luxemburg. 

Luxemburg  was  not  progressing  under  the  rule  of 
Charles  II  of  Spain.  The  greasy  mercenaries  of  a  dozen 
countries  were  still  quartered  in  the  capital  and  surround- 
ing towns.  The  province  was  a  Vesuvius  of  rapine  and 
anarchy,  its  people  were  hunted  animals  who  looked  upon 
death  as  a  welcome  relief. 

Louis  prepared  well  for  his  climacteric  attack  on 
Siegfroid's  rock. 

He  despatched  that  excellent  devotee  of  arson  Marshal 
Boufflers  upon  a  long  campaign  of  artillery  sharpshooting 
against  the  storied  castles  of  the  Alzette,  the  Mamer,  the 
Esch,  and  the  Sure.  Boufflers  left  trails  across  the  duchy 
that  centuries  have  not  begun  to  efface.  They  probably 
will  be  there  when  Boufflers  is  called  from  his  tomb  by 
Gabriel.  The  castles  that  Rome  had  founded  and  suc- 
ceeding generations  had  built  into  seemingly  impreg- 
nable refuges  heard  their  doom  in  the  blast  of  massed  bat- 
teries. 

Boufflers's  work  was  painstaking  and  thorough.     He 

125 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

moved  his  guns  in  a  leisurely  fashion  from  one  door  to 
another,  bounced  cannon-balls  against  great  towers  and 
proud  battlements,  assiduously  avoided  melted  lead  and 
boiling  pitch  and  similar  ammunition  of  feudal  defense, 
and  in  the  end  chased  the  little  garrisons  from  their 
wrecked  shelters  and  applied  the  torch  to  whatever  the 
artillery  had  spared. 

He  was  not  opposed  by  any  large  number  of  fighting- 
men  during  his  cycle  of  destruction.  The  seigneurs  of 
Luxemburg  were  at  the  capital,  preparing  for  the  assault 
that  every  one  knew  was  in  prospect.  Boufflers's  cam- 
paign was  designed  to  draw  them  away  from  the  fortress 
to  their  own  castles. 

And  the  ruse  succeeded.  Louis's  main  army  marched 
to  the  attack  and  for  six  weeks  rained  iron  and  lead  upon 
the  citadel.  During  that  period  the  French  lost  eight 
thousand  men  and  the  defending  garrison  w^as  reduced 
from  four  thousand  to  four  hundred. 

The  capital  surrendered  to  Marshal  Crequi  on  June  4, 
1684,  and  the  Spanish  garrison  was  allowed  to  march  out 
with  all  the  honors  of  war. 

The  burghers  welcomed  Louis  as  they  would  have 
welcomed  any  one  who  gave  them  a  promise  of  order  and 
peace.  It  was  no  difficult  task  to  feel  grateful  toward  an 
enemy  whose  presence  insured  their  supply  of  food  and 
freedom  from  pillage,  and  to  feel  reconciled  to  the  loss 

126 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

of  "friendly"  soldiery  whose  regime  had  been  notable 
principally  for  bestial  cruelties. 

But  still  the  red  kaleidoscope  ground  out  its  changing 
patterns.  Louis,  during  his  reign  of  thirteen  years, 
brought  considerable  French  atmosphere  into  the  duchy 
through  his  importation  of  settlers  to  repopulate  the  dis- 
tricts over  which  fire,  famine,  sword,  and  pestilence  had 
passed  so  frequently.  The  purely  French  names  and 
much  of  the  pro-French  feeling  of  the  grand  duchy  of 
to-day  may  be  traced  directly  to  this  period. 

Under  Louis  the  duchy  felt  for  the  first  time  the  hand 
of  an  absolute  monarch.  The  last  ember  of  feudalism 
was  in  ashes  among  the  cinders  of  the  castles  that  had 
represented  it.  Louis  was  a  prince  with  a  firm  hand  and 
supreme  self-confidence  and  had  seen  the  effects  of  a 
system  in  which  too  many  vassals  were  stronger  than  the 
masters  they  served. 

The  efficiency  with  which  he  operated  in  Luxemburg 
is  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  of  fifty-seven  counts,  barons, 
and  seigneurs  enrolled  at  the  time  of  Boufflers's  flaming 
expedition,  not  one  name  remains  alive  to-day. 

Louis  speedily  found  himself  in  trouble.  He  was 
opposed  by  England,  Germany,  Spain,  and  Holland, 
fought  for  nine  years,  and  came  to  the  finish  of  his  great- 
ness with  the  Peace  of  Ryswick.  By  the  terms  of  this 
pact  Luxemburg  was  taken  away  from  him  and  restored 
to  Spain. 

127 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

And  yet  the  wars  and  rumors  of  war  were  unceasing. 
Charles  II  of  Spain  died  and  the  royal  houses  of  France 
and  Austria  mustered  thousands  of  men  to  whom  the 
matter  was  no  great  concern,  to  settle  the  rights  of  the 
Spanish  succession.  It  was  while  this  necessary  carnage 
was  in  progress  that  England  took  possession  of  Gibral- 
tar.   A  Dutch  army  invested  Luxemburg. 

Ambition  flares  up  suddenly  in  narrow  breasts  and 
amateur  Napoleons  are  products  of  no  particular  sort  of 
soil.  While  France  and  Austria  were  engaged  in  their 
debate  concerning  the  laws  of  inheritance,  Maximilian 
Emanuel,  Elector  of  Bavaria,  completed  an  arrangement 
whereby  he  would  support  the  claims  of  the  Duke  of 
Anjou  to  the  throne  of  Spain  in  exchange  for  the  French 
claims  to  the  Netherlands. 

It  so  happened  that  the  Dutch  garrison  at  Luxemburg 
had  been  conducting  some  experiments  with  Moselle 
wine,  and  Maximilian  at  the  head  of  twelve  thousand 
men  scaled  the  ramparts  and  entered  the  city  before  any 
one  in  the  vicinity  had  learned  that  he  was  to  be  con- 
sidered a  factor  in  the  struggle. 

Maximilian  retained  possession  for  three  years  while 
the  larger  contestants  were  too  busy  to  think  about  him. 
The  Peace  of  Utrecht,  1713,  however,  gave  the  Spanish 
Netherlands  to  the  house  of  Hapsburg  and  the  elector 
withdrew  as  gracefully  as  possible. 

Charles  VI  of  Austria  started  the  country  upon  the 

128 


THE    LOWER   CITY 

A  bit  of  ancient  fortification  and  the  chapel  where  the  bones  of  John  the  BHnd  halted 

momentarily  in  their  wanderings 


THE    SUBURB    UE    THE    GRU.ND,    TliE    I  Pi'ER    TOWN 
To  the  right  the  ancient  bridge  leading  to  the  Bock  where  the  Fairy  Alelusine  is  imprisoned 

LUXEMBURG   CITY 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

first  era  of  peace  that  it  had  known  for  generations.  He 
regulated  everything,  from  Sunday  closing  and  "moon- 
shining"  to  postal  service,  passports,  and  money-lending. 
He  removed  the  traditional  ban  against  commerce  as  a 
means  of  livelihood  for  barons  destined  by  tradition  and 
inclination  to  carry  on  the  more  gentlemanly  pursuits  of 
highway  robbery.  It  was  this  latter  ruling,  merely  inci- 
dental to  a  great  program  of  reform,  that  eventually  gave 
the  duchy  its  place  in  the  sun.  Luxemburg  is  an  iron 
country  and  the  indigent  nobles,  granted  permission  to 
earn  an  honest  living,  installed  a  number  of  blast- 
furnaces, some  of  which  were  on  the  sites  of  to-day's  great 
manufacturing  plants. 

Charles  died  and  Maria  Theresa,  queen  of  kindness, 
took  the  throne  by  right  of  pragmatic  sanction.  Her 
reign  added  prosperity  to  the  restful  peace  of  the  Moselle 
province.  She  simplified  the  processes  of  justice  and 
reduced  clerical  and  baronial  privilege.  She  was  tact- 
ful, intelligent,  and  strong,  a  fairy  queen  who  was  withal 
very  human. 

Joseph  II,  her  son,  who  shouldered  the  problems  of 
empire  at  her  death,  was  a  sort  of  Haroun  al  Raschid  with 
a  wealth  of  untried  schemes  for  the  betterment  of  the 
world  and  a  supreme  egotism. 

The  brotherhood  of  man  became  the  subject-matter  of 
all  his  political  preachments.  But  his  attitude  seems  to 
have  been  that  the  human  being  who  was  his  brother  was 

129 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

also  his  child,  without  a  mind  of  his  own.  "Liberty, 
equality,  fraternity"  were  combined  in  Joseph's  policies 
under  a  broad  cloak  of  paternalism. 

He  visited  Luxemburg  city  incognito  a  year  after  his 
succession  to  the  throne,  took  up  his  lodgings  at  a  hotel 
instead  of  in  one  of  the  several  chateaux  which  he  owned 
in  the  district,  walked  about  among  the  burghers  as  a 
private  citizen,  and  generally  maintained  the  democratic 
airs  of  his  disguised  self,  while  making  no  bones  about 
his  knowledge  that  his  identity  had  been  discovered. 

He  undertook  to  eliminate  a  number  of  minor  religious 
orders,  combining  their  membership  in  one  or  two  strong 
organizations.  His  plans  did  not  arouse  much  comment 
in  Luxemburg,  where  they  affected  only  a  few  houses. 
But  they  aroused  the  hatred  of  the  Belgian  clergy  and 
generally  prepared  the  way  for  the  overthrow  of  the 
Hapsburgs  in  the  Netherlands. 

His  lack  of  understanding  of  the  people  he  patronized 
reached  a  climax  when  he  undertook  to  disregard  provin- 
cial charters  in  the  estates  of  Brabant,  including  that  of 
"the  joyous  entrance."  This  charter,  taking  its  name 
from  the  fact  that  Wenceslaus,  son  of  John  the  Blind, 
upon  entering  Brussels  with  his  young  wife  the  Duchess 
of  Brabant,  agreed  to  recognize  all  existing  privileges. 
Among  the  privileges  later  incorporated  in  the  official 
charter  which  bore  the  title  La  Joyeuse  Entree  was  that 
of  deposing  a  sovereign  who  failed  to  maintain  it. 

130 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

In  1787  he  suppressed  the  permanent  deputations  of 
the  estates  of  Brabant  and  overturned  the  established 
judiciary  system.  In  October,  1789,  came  the  result. 
Belgium  arose  in  a  general  revolt  and  drove  the  Austrian 
troops  east  of  the  Meuse.  Of  the  Spanish  Netherlands, 
so  called,  Luxemburg  alone  remained  faithful  to  the  rule 
of  Austria.  Joseph,  who  saw  his  reforms  overthrown  and 
his  kindnesses  misinterpreted  by  these  people  whom  he 
had  determined  to  make  his  "brothers"  willy-nilly,  died 
of  a  broken  heart. 

His  epitaph  best  tells  his  history : 

Here  lies  a  prince  whose  intentions  were  pure  but  who  had  the 
misfortune  to  witness  the  wrecking  of  all  his  enterprises. 

The  Belgic  provinces  decided  to  return  to  Austria  after 
overtures  by  Leopold  II,  brother  of  Joseph  II.  But  the 
pacification  had  only  brief  results.  Leopold  had  scarcely 
been  laid  in  his  grave,  in  1792,  when  the  French  Revolu- 
tion was  detonated.  The  Republican  Government 
stated  that  Francis  II,  son  of  Leopold,  and  his  Prussian 
ally  Frederick  William  II,  were  harboring  French  refu- 
gees as  a  menace  to  the  revolutionary  movement,  and  de- 
clared war  against  them.  Thus  began  another  twenty 
years  of  bloodshed.  The  Prussians  started  successfully, 
taking  Longwy  and  Verdun.  The  road  to  Paris  was  open 
before  them,  but  they  were  stopped  by  an  audacious  man- 
ceuver  on  the  part  of  Dumouriez — mark  the  place — in  the 
fated  passages  of  the  Argonne. 

131 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

The  Germans  fought  to  a  draw  at  Valmy  and  retreated 
through  Luxemburg.  The  retreat  did  to  the  army  what 
French  artillery  and  bayonets  had  failed  to  do.  The  ad- 
vance of  the  Republican  troops  toward  the  Rhine  found 
the  duchy  virtually  without  a  protector. 

In  1794  they  laid  siege  to  the  Great  Rock  and  there 
ensued  the  most  terrible  period  in  the  history  of  the  fort 
since  Siegfroid  and  Melusine  had  laid  its  foundations. 
After  seven  months,  the  Austrian  garrison  and  Luxem- 
burg volunteers  were  reduced  to  the  point  of  starvation 
and  the  unburied  dead  in  the  streets  of  the  capital  gave 
potent  promise  of  another  pestilence  of  the  sort  that  is 
war's  best  ally. 

Field-Marshal  Bender  capitulated  in  June,  1795,  and 
Luxemburg  was  annexed  to  the  republic  under  the  terms 
of  "the  National  Convention  of  the  Ninth  Vendemiaire, 
the  Year  IV,"  and  called  "The  Department  of  Forests." 

A  tax  of  a  million  and  a  half  francs  was  immediately 
assessed  against  the  city  of  eight  thousand  inhabitants, 
whose  pitiful  fortunes  had  been  further  reduced  by  war. 
A  large  sum  of  silver  found  in  the  house  of  a  French  refu- 
gee, however,  lessened  this  burden  by  reducing  the  pro 
rata.  Nine  commissioners  were  appointed  to  see  that  the 
taxes  were  promptly  and  cheerfully  paid. 

War  had  been  hell  for  the  Luxemburgers  during  a 
thousand  years  or  more  of  distinct  national  existence. 

132 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

Peace  under  the  French  Republic  was  its  culminating 
fury. 

Spared  the  hatreds  fostered  by  doctrinal  wrangling  in 
the  wake  of  the  revolution,  strongly  religious  and  firmly 
Catholic  despite  the  reformation  on  one  side  and  the 
materialistic  revolution  on  the  other,  they  were  plunged 
without  warning  into  the  midst  of  intolerance  masquerad- 
ing under  the  guise  of  liberty.  They  saw  their  churches 
put  to  use  as  granaries  and  storehouses,  all  that  they  held 
sacred  desecrated,  their  traditions  targeted  by  a  murder- 
ous crew  of  aliens. 

Luxemburg  must  have  felt  the  Terror  more  than  did 
the  loyalists  of  France.  For  the  Luxemburgers  had  not 
the  remotest  conception  of  what  it  stood  for.  They  were 
told  that  they  were  being  liberated,  and  liberty  meant 
nothing  to  them  thenceforward  but  the  assassination  of 
nuns  and  priests,  the  wrecking  of  cherished  ideals,  and 
the  burning  of  age-old  convents. 

The  transition  from  feudalism  with  its  ground-rentals 
to  private  ownership  with  its  endless  taxes  may  have  been 
a  great  step  forward  in  the  national  life  of  the  duchy, 
but  the  unfortunates  whom  it  affected  did  not  recognize 
it  as  such. 

Their  sons,  conscripted  despite  all  protest  or  hope  of 
exemption,  were  sent  into  foreign  lands  to  give  their 
lives  to  perpetuate  their  enemy's  conquests.  Here  was 
the  first  fertile  field  of  Kanonenf utter  and  the  harvest 

133 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

was  thorough.  Fourteen  thousand  young  men  marched 
forth  from  the  Department  of  Forests  to  serve  as  targets 
in  the  cause  of  "liberty."  Five  thousand  of  them  came 
back. 

Unarmed,  untrained,  hopeless,  and  helpless,  the  men 
of  Luxemburg  arose  against  their  "saviors"  with  the 
courage  of  despair  to  protest  against  all  of  this.  The 
Kloeppelkrieg,  or  "Peasants'  War,"  is  an  epic.  The  re- 
volt, which  started  shortly  after  Napoleon's  departure 
for  Egypt,  was  put  down  in  a  series  of  short  engagements 
and  prompt  massacres. 

Then  for  four  years  the  policy  of  repression  was  carried 
on  with  a  vigor  that  made  previous  tyranny  seem  like  a 
continuous  holiday;  firearms,  powder,  and  all  bells  not 
serving  public  clocks  were  seized  and  taken  to  Luxem- 
burg city.  "It  was,"  said  the  Cure  Bormann,  "a  four- 
years'  Good  Friday." 

Paris  capitulates.    Napoleon  goes  into  exile. 

There  follow  "The  Hundred  Days."  A  peasant  tells 
an  emperor :  "The  way  to  La  Haie  Sainte  is  clear."  And 
the  flower  of  the  French  army  rides  on  to  death  in  the 
sunken  road  of  Ohain,  and  a  great  conqueror  loces  the 
Battle  of  Waterloo. 

The  Congress  of  Vienna  established  the  Kingdom  of 
the  Netherlands,  uniting  Holland  and  Belgium  under 
William  I,  Prince  of  Orange-Nassau- Vianden  and 
Grand-duke  of  Luxemburg.    The  grand  duchy  had  been 

134 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

ceded  to  him  by  Prussia,  its  principal  claimant,  in  com- 
pensation for  his  loss  of  territory  in  Nassau.  Europe  ap- 
parently had  been  stabilized.  But  paper  kingdoms  had 
been  manufactured  many  times  before  the  convening  of 
the  Congress  of  Vienna  and  history  had  shown  them  to  be 
very  flimsy  affairs. 

The  religious  differences  which  had  parted  Belgium 
and  the  northern  Netherlands  once  before  remained  un- 
changed. Holland  basked  in  royal  favor  while  the  Wal- 
loons made  desperate  efforts  to  master  the  Dutch  lan- 
guage. Financial  tangles  that  distressed  Brabant,  and 
the  unwillingness  of  William  to  listen  to  protest  brought 
new  resentment.  In  1830  armed  men  were  marching  once 
more  upon  the  bloody  fields  of  Flanders,  and  Belgium 
had  declared  its  individuality  in  revolution.  During 
the  nine  years  that  followed,  the  Prussian  garrison  placed 
in  Luxemburg  city  by  the  Congress  of  Vienna  rested  on  its 
arms  while  the  representatives  of  the  grand-duke  exer- 
cised the  functions  of  government  for  the  eastern  half  of 
the  duchy.  The  western  half  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Bel- 
gians, who  had  founded  a  new  provincial  capital  at 
Arlon. 

The  Treaty  of  London  of  1839  fixed  the  boundaries  of 
the  grand  duchy  in  their  present  form,  slicing  off  the 
Walloon  territory  to  form  the  Belgian  "Province  of  Lux- 
emburg." 

Little  was  left  of  the  duchy  that  Wenceslaus,  the  first 

135 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

duke,  had  inherited,  except  the  Great  Rock,  but  that  was 
sufficient  to  bring  Europe  to  the  verge  of  a  new  war  and  to 
foment  a  new  series  of  hatreds  that  were  in  good  working- 
order  as  late  as  November  1 1,  1918. 

France  was  dissatisfied  with  the  maintenance  of  a  Prus- 
sian garrison  in  an  impregnable  fortress  so  close  to  her 
own  frontiers.  Louis  Napoleon,  who  reckoned  without 
Bismarck,  imagined  Germany  a  negligible  quantity  in 
Europe. 

Despite  the  disillusionment  on  that  score  that  should 
have  come  to  him  after  witnessing  the  speedy  termination 
of  the  war  between  Prussia  and  Austria  in  1866  and 
sensing,  though  he  might  not  have  seen,  the  Machiavel- 
lian hand  of  the  Iron  Chancellor  molding  new  destinies 
for  the  Central  Powers,  Louis  believed  that  he  held  the 
whip-hand.  He  naively  suggested  to  Bismarck  that  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  France  was  willing  to  recognize  the 
gains  of  the  Prussians  in  their  recent  conflict  with  Aus- 
tria, Germany  should  make  some  concessions  for  mutual 
benefit.  Luxemburg,  he  pointed  out,  had  been  left  out 
of  the  new  German  federation,  and  was  no  longer  a  fed- 
eral fortress.  That  being  the  case,  it  should  be  given  to 
France  to  compensate  for  the  new  strength  of  Prussia. 
The  argument  had  better  basis  than  the  stolid  Louis  could 
have  realized. 

Bismarck,  while  indicating  his  acquiescence,  contrived 
to  get  a  damaging  statement  from  the  French  ambassador 

136 


SWORD  AND  TORCH 

in  Berlin,  indicating  that  Louis  was  preparing  to  "violate 
the  neutrality  of  Belgium," — prophetic  phrase  I 

He  published  it  at  a  psychological  moment  and  war 
between  France  and  Prussia  was  held  in  leash  by  a  hair. 

The  great  powers  convened  in  London  in  1867  and 
settled  the  matter  by  arbitration.  They  decided  that  as 
neither  France  nor  Germany  ought  to  have  the  fortress, 
it  had  best  be  destroyed  and  it  was  so  ordered. 

Luxemburg's  neutrality  was  placed  under  a  guaranty 
similar  to  that  which  established  the  autonomy  of  Bel- 
gium. The  Prussian  garrison  evacuated  Luxemburg 
city  and  the  work  of  demolition  was  begun.  In  1870 
Siegfroid's  rock  was  no  longer  a  menace.  Presently 
France  and  Prussia  were  flying  at  each  other's  throats  for 
a  cause  that  apparently  had  nothing  to  do  with  Luxem- 
burg. But  the  denuded  rock  by  the  Alzette  epitomized 
the  story  of  the  grudges  and  envies  that  had  made  war 
for  any  reason  a  possibility. 

After  a  thousand  years  of  proud,  uprearing  dignity, 
the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  had  fallen  down  and  been  sold  to 
the  junkmen.  A  Samson  of  strength  had  pushed  for  ten 
centuries  against  the  pillars  of  alien  nations  and  now 
lay  dead  amid  the  ruins. 

A  million  armed  men  have  marched  through  Luxem- 
burg since  that  time  and  the  tiny  grand  duchy  is  still  a 
nation.  A  people's  spirit  is  something  that  remains  after 
ramparts  and  bastions  have  been  dynamited  asunder  and 
outward  manifestations  of  power  have  been  ground 
under  the  hob-nailed  heel  of  military  necessity. 

137 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  CAPITAL 


City  of  Cloak  and  Sword 

Then  sheathes  in  calm  repose  the  vengeful  blade, 
For  gentle  peace 

— Adams. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  CAPITAL 


AN  overhanging  gable  bulked  ominously  into  the 
crooked  little  street.  In  the  flickering  glare  of 
an  ancient  oil  lamp  at  the  corner,  one  caught  a 
vague  glimpse  of  blackened  timbers  crossed  in  the  stucco 
surface  of  the  wall,  a  window  with  many  small  bulbous 
panes,  and  a  slate  roof  rising  almost  perpendicularly  into 
the  black  sky.  Over  the  way  a  furtive  glimmer  of  light 
crept  through  a  tightly  closed  shutter.  Somewhere  in  the 
depths  of  the  gloom  a  pair  of  wooden-soled  shoes  clicked 
a  diminuendo  tattoo.  A  decrepit  cart,  drawn  by  a  lei- 
surely Belgian  horse,  creaked  dismally  over  the  cobbles  of 
the  age-old  pavement. 

The  Grimms  wrote  about  such  a  street.  The  atmos- 
phere of  homely  mystery  that  pervaded  the  German  folk- 
lore still  lingers  in  the  quaint  architecture,  the  odd  angles, 
and  the  unexpected  quirks  of  this  old-world  alley.  Time 
has  not  passed  here.  A  century  has  lost  itself  in  the  mazes 
of  its  curves  while  the  town  clock  has  ticked  off  the  impor- 
tant minutes  that  lie  between  tallow  dips  and  electric 
lights,  sedan-chairs  and  street  cars,  courier  and  telephone, 
ox-cart  and  motor. 

A  sad-faced  gargoyle  wept  copious  tears  upon  the  worn 

141 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

flags.  A  tuneless  song,  plaintive  and  quavering,  floated 
up  from  a  near-by  rathskeller,  accompanied  by  sundry 
and  divers  beery  smells.  A  German  police  dog  stuck  a 
quizzical  nose  from  a  doorway  in  the  shadow  of  a  jutting 
gable  and  cast  a  disdainful  eye  over  his  surroundings. 

Certainly  this  was  a  highway  of  intrigue  in  a  city  of  the 
cloak  and  sword. 

In  the  distance  the  lights  of  the  capital  cast  a  dull 
twilight  upward,  disclosing  the  ghostly  outline  of  spire 
and  tower  and  gable.  There  was  a  perfume  of  roses  in  the 
air — and  a  sense  of  Melusine's  presence. 

It  was  thus  that  I  first  saw  Luxemburg  city. 

No  capital  in  the  world  is  quite  like  Luxemburg  city. 
It  has  the  pose  and  poise  of  Gibraltar,  the  bridge-and- 
spire  profile  of  Bruges,  the  flowered  beauty  of  Paris,  the 
historic  charm  of  Brussels,  and  the  mystery  of  a  temple 
city  of  the  Orient. 

Passmore  refers  to  it  as  a  dozen  cities  in  one. 

Renwick  quotes  J.  W.  Burgon  in  describing  it, — 

"A  rose-red  city,  half  as  old  as  time." 

And  both  are  right.  In  intangible  pattern,  age  and 
roses  are  bright  in  the  memories  that  one  carries  away 
with  him. 

There  is  something  in  this  city  that  all  the  nations  of 
the  world  had  a  hand  in  forming,  which  reminds  one  of 

142 


THE  CAPITAL 

a  Chinese  lacquer  work.  Layer  by  layer  the  color  and 
groundwork  are  laid  with  deft  and  careful  hand,  until, 
after  years  of  patient  building,  beauty  emerges  trium- 
phant. Siegfroid  and  Melusine  put  down  the  first 
stratum  of  the  present  Luxemburg  more  than  a  thousand 
years  ago.  Part  of  their  handiwork  may  be  seen  to-day. 
And  atop  the  ruins  of  the  city  they  built  one  sees  the  ves- 
tiges of  other  strata:  Burgundian,  Austrian,  Spanish, 
French,  and  Prussian.  The  art  and  wealth  of  the  world 
and  its  conquerors  went  into  this  capital  and  much  of  the 
original  investment  remains. 

Gone  is  the  military  glory  of  the  great  city.  It  basks  in 
the  sun  amid  its  famous  roses  like  a  warrior  tired  of  blood- 
shed. But,  though  jealous  nations  have  taken  away  its 
sword  and  smashed  its  armor,  the  tokens  of  its  power 
remain  where  all  may  see  them. 

Paper  treaties  can  never  change  the  contour  of  its  grim 
rocks,  nor  alter  the  courses  of  the  deep-running  streams 
that  excavated  its  fosses.  As  a  fortress  it  is  something  of 
a  Phoenix.  Some  fifty  years  ago  the  military  experts  of 
France  and  Germany  saw  the  last  charge  of  dynamite 
detonated  in  the  leveling  of  its  walls  and  inspected  with 
pleased  eyes  the  emasculated  bastions  of  the  Great  Rock. 

"The  fortress  is  useless,"  declared  the  German  expert 
in  his  report  to  the  Iron  Chancellor.  "Never  again  will  it 
be  a  menace!" 

How  Melusine  must  have  laughed  at  that  I     Neither 

143 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Germany  nor  France  could  foresee  the  crumpled  turrets 
of  Liege,  nor  the  heroic  defense  of  Fort  Vaux.  They 
could  not  know  that  in  five  decades  the  great  outer  cinc- 
ture of  Paris  would  be  dismantled  as  useless. 

A  great  war  has  passed  and  the  idea  of  strongholds  has 
changed.  To-day  a  few  field-guns  would  make  of  Lux- 
emburg city  another  Verdun,  perhaps  a  greater  Verdun. 
Which  proves  that  a  city  born  to  be  a  Titan  will  never  be 
a  pygmy,  whatever  Iron  Chancellors  and  learned  arbitra- 
tors may  have  to  say  about  it. 

The  Bock,  site  of  the  original  Lucilinburhuc,  juts  out 
into  its  ravine  on  the  northeast  side  of  the  city.  At  its 
base  the  purling  Alzette  twists  like  a  letter  S  into  the 
north.  At  the  bottom  of  the  S,  the  tiny  Petrusse  pours 
into  the  Alzette  through  another  canon,  surrounding 
three  sides  of  the  capital  with  a  moat,  the  depth  of  which 
is  accentuated  by  its  narrowness. 

Straight  across  the  S-curve  of  the  Alzette  the  Prince 
Henri  Railroad  strikes  into  the  gentle  valley  that  leads 
to  Ettelbruck.  In  its  departure  it  rattles  over  the  Great 
Rock  through  a  great  graveyard  of  wrecked  wall,  tower, 
and  rampart.  It  gives  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  Clausen 
where  Mansfeld  built  his  storied  chateau.  Its  squeaky 
whistles  echo  between  crags  that  once  threw  back  the 
challenging  gun  roar  of  the  army  of  Louis  XIV.  Its  road- 
bed is  laid  atop  the  unmarked  graves  of  forgotten  heroes. 

Where  the  Petrusse  casts  its  lot  with  the  Alzette  the 

144 


THE  CAPITAL 

valley  widens  and  on  this  floor  of  rocky  chaos  "The 
Lower  Town"  follows  the  curve  of  the  streams.  The 
Grund,  the  natives  call  this  place.  And  while  its  date 
of  origin  is  doubtful,  it  has  a  look  of  antiquity  equal  to 
that  of  the  pyramids.  From  the  railroad  or  the  cliff  high- 
way of  the  upper  city  it  looks  like  a  great  unroofed  cata- 
comb. 

The  course  of  the  long-gone  ramparts  which  supplied 
protection  for  the  west  and  northwest  sides  of  the  city, 
may  be  traced  by  a  great  arc  of  boulevards  and  rose  gar- 
dens that  swings  about  from  the  Petrusse  to  the  Alzette. 
About  twenty  per  cent,  of  the  town's  area  is  covered 
by  these  parks,  a  long  vista  of  greenery  and  flowers  that 
gives  no  hint  of  the  ugly  hillocks  that  once  stood  here. 
Whatever  opprobrium  Luxemburg  may  heap  upon  the 
heads  of  the  London  councillors  who  ordered  the  fort 
dismantled  and  the  nation  disarmed,  should  be  tempered 
with  thanksgiving.  For  the  work  of  demolition  made 
possible  this  work  of  civic  beautification. 

Documents  and  sketches  extant  in  the  Luxemburg 
museum  show  that  this  massive  wall  was  a  mountain  of 
stone  and  mortar.  It  was  so  high  that  it  hid  the  spires  of 
the  city's  seven  churches  and  so  forbiddingly  square  that 
even  rose-vines  and  ivy  could  not  hide  its  gaunt  menace. 

But  the  park  that  has  succeeded  is  the  work  of  M. 
Edouard  Andre,  who  designed  the  world-famous  gardens 
of  Monte  Carlo.     The  French  landscape  engineer  has 

HS 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

zoned  the  skeleton  of  medieval  militarism  with  a  cincture 
of  rich  and  varied  beauty.  Botanical  gardens  are  suc^ 
ceeded  by  patches  of  natural  grove,  and  through  the  en- 
tire belt  shady  pathways  curve  in  lace-patterns  up  hill 
and  down  dale  in  a  journey  of  never-ending  delights. 

The  casemates  of  the  Bock,  sunk  into  the  rock  by  Marie 
d'Autriche,  sister  of  Charles  V, — in  1765,  before  Vau- 
ban,  came  to  make  Luxemburg  the  greatest  inland  fortress 
in  Europe, — still  may  be  seen.  The  engineers  of  de- 
struction sent  there  by  the  world  powers  after  the  decision 
of  the  Council  of  London  did  not  consider  them  impor- 
tant enough  to  justify  a  waste  of  blasting-powder.  To- 
day they  are  much  the  same  as  they  were  when  Marie's 
sappers  constructed  them, — a  network  of  vaults  eleven 
feet  wide  and  ten  feet  high  circling  the  face  of  the  prom- 
ontory like  a  cloistered  walk.  Loopholes  sufficient  to 
accommodate  twenty-five  batteries  looked  out  upon  the 
Pfaffenthal  and  Grund.  From  this  rocky  gun-turret  a 
subterranean  passage  led  down  beneath  the  natural  fosse 
that  separated  the  rock  from  the  plateau  upon  which  the 
greater  portion  of  the  present  city  of  Luxemburg  stands. 

All  of  this  excavation  was  accomplished  without  the 
aid  of  modern  explosives  and  remains  a  monumental 
tribute  to  the  military  zeal  and  painstaking  thorough- 
ness of  the  woman  who  planned  it  and  the  men  who  ex- 
ecuted it. 

And  the  tangible  engineering,  rather  than  the  stirring 

146 


THE  CAPITAL 

romances  of  the  rock,  has  merited  for  it  the  name  by  which 
it  is  known  to  the  present  generation  of  Melusine's  de- 
scendants. Hollow  Tooth  [Huolen  Zant),  is  the  title 
they  give  it.  And  a  descriptive  appellation  it  is.  The 
Bock  was  the  fang  of  Siegfroid's  dragon  of  the  Alzette,  a 
fang  that  buried  itself  deeply  into  the  throat  of  many  an 
adversary,  and  it  looks  the  part. 

Aside  from  the  subterranean  passage  that  leads  from 
the  casemates  to  the  city  proper,  this  island  in  the  air  was 
connected  with  the  mainland  by  a  double  bridge,  but- 
tressed and  fortified.  The  tunnel  was  an  emergency  exit 
for  the  defenders  of  the  Bock  in  the  event  that  an  enemy 
should  destroy  the  bridges.  The  causeway  has  felt  the 
effects  of  time  and  powder.  Its  ramparts  have  fallen  and 
its  protecting  towers  are  obelisks  of  ruin.  But  the  bridge 
itself  will  have  to  crumble  for  many  a  century  more  before 
it  will  be  unserviceable. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  that  the  greatest  test  of  the  Bock 
and  its  casemates  should  have  been  imposed  by  the 
United  States,  a  nation  that  had  not  come  into  being  at 
the  time  of  Marie  d'Autriche.  But  it  is  a  truth  that  any 
Luxemburger  who  lived  in  the  capital  in  war  time  will 
attest.  During  the  German  retreat  it  became  known  to 
the  general  headquarters  of  the  American  Expeditionary 
Forces  that  the  German  high  command  was  meeting  in 
Luxemburg  city  and  that  ammunition,  supplies,  and 
troops  were  clearing  through  here  for  Verdun,  Sedan,  and 

147 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Stenay.  As  a  consequence,  although  the  neutrality  of 
Luxemburg  was  recognized,  bombing-planes  were  sent 
over  nightly  to  make  as  much  trouble  as  possible  for  the 
German  crown-prince's  advisers. 

When  TNT  began  to  rain  into  the  vale  of  the  Al- 
zette  out  of  the  dark  sky,  the  people  fled  to  the  Bock  as 
their  ancestors,  hundreds  of  years  before,  had  fled  for 
protection  against  the  petards  of  Louis  XIV.  A  great 
portion  of  the  city's  populace  was  accommodated  either 
in  the  ancient  gun-vaults  or  in  similar  tunnels  of  Vau- 
ban's  fort  on  the  plateau.  A  town  which  had  come  down 
to  modernity  through  a  thousand  years  of  defensive  pol- 
icy did  not  need  to  look  far  for  effective  shelter. 

The  Bock  withstood  these  bombardments.  There  were 
plenty  of  direct  hits  on  the  city  and  some  loss  of  life.  But 
the  rock  turned  TNT  as  it  had  turned  the  arrows  of 
the  Trevirians  and  the  bullets  of  later  foes. 

Of  recent  years  the  chiseled  passages  have  served  as 
store-rooms  for  champagne  and  an  arsenal  for  the  gendar- 
merie. There  was  little  champagne  left,  however,  at  the 
time  that  the  casemates  were  used  as  an  abri.  The  com- 
pany which  stored  it  was  French  and  the  Germans  had 
a  definite  policy  regarding  the  disposal  of  enemy  prop- 
erty. 

Across  the  river  from  the  Huolen  Zant  on  the  south- 
ern side  rises  the  Rham  plateau,  where  the  Romans  once 
had  a  camp.    Wenceslaus  fortified  it  in  1393  and  the  mili- 

148 


THE  CAPITAL 

tary  tinkers  who  followed  after  him  to  pile  new  stones  on 
Siegf  roid's  strong  point  did  their  best  to  make  it  a  worthy 
auxiliary  to  the  Bock.  Four  towers  erected  by  Wences- 
laus  still  are  standing. 

From  this  point  one  gazes  down  upon  the  Grund  with 
its  time-torn  parish  church.  This  chapel  is  noteworthy 
principally  as  one  of  the  places  where  the  bones  of  John 
the  Blind  found  temporary  sanctuary. 

The  body  of  the  perigrinating  King  of  Bohemia  lay 
for  a  long  time  in  a  crypt  behind  the  high  altar  beneath  a 
monument  that  has  since  been  removed  to  the  cathedral. 
John  has  departed  from  here,  however,  wandering  in 
death  as  he  did  in  life,  so  the  principal  relics  of  the  church 
are  less  regal  than  a  king's  ashes. 

Scattered  about  amid  a  quantity  of  queer  appointments 
are  a  number  of  handsome  wood-carvings.  The  bap- 
tismal fonts  are  priceless  examples  of  the  wood-working 
art,  and  the  statue  of  the  Black  Virgin — "La  Sancte 
Vierge  Noire  (or  d'Egypte)  " — is  a  revelation  to  one  who 
would  study  the  sculptures  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Northeast  of  the  Bock  is  the  Clausen,  a  park-like  valley 
below  the  wooded  heights  of  Parkhohe,  Obergriinwald, 
and  Niedergriinwald.  It  was  here  that  Mansfeld  built 
his  palace,  but  only  isolated  groups  of  stone  remain  to 
mark  the  spot  where  it  stood. 

To  the  left  of  the  Clausen,  on  the  heights  that  rise  up 
from  the  Pfaffenthal,  three  towers  are  emplaced  in  one  of 

149 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Andre's  groves.  They  are  all  that  is  left  of  Fort  Thiingen. 
The  Three  Acorns,  they  are  named  in  local  parlance, — 
Trois  Glands,  a  name  that  conveys  nothing  of  their 
bloody  history.  It  was  in  this  fort  that  the  rebels  of  the 
Kloeppelkrieg  were  executed  by  the  sansculottes  after  the 
French  Revolution. 

Near  the  fort  on  the  Rue  Vauban  of  the  Ffaifenthal  is 
the  Musee  Archeologique,  where  are  collected  the  visible 
remains  of  Luxemburg's  peculiarly  important  place  in 
world  history. 

This  museum  is  the  bound  volume  of  the  duchy's  ro- 
mance. It  contains  national  archives  dating  from  803 
A.  D.  and  twenty  thousand  books  on  subjects  allied  to  the 
country's  history.  And  if  stories  may  be  read  in  stones, 
the  material  is  here  with  which  may  be  reconstructed  the 
lives  of  the  prehistoric  races  of  the  Ardennes.  Carvings, 
statuettes,  coins,  tools,  and  pottery,  left  behind  by  the 
departing  Celts;  Druid  relics  in  stone  and  metal;  burial 
trappings  of  the  Franks ;  Roman  weapons  and  coins  with- 
out number;  tapestries  and  furniture  from  the  time  of 
Ermesinde ;  mosaics,  carved  inscriptions ;  cross-bows  that 
saw  service  at  Woeringen;  personal  belongings  of  John 
the  Blind;  carved  cannon  from  the  battle-fields  of  Louis 
of  France, — these  and  a  thousand  other  treasures  have 
been  gathered  here.  The  accoutrements  of  war  make  up 
a  large  portion  of  the  exhibits.  But  that  is  natural.  Lux- 
emburg's history  is  a  long  recital  of  battle  and  strife. 

.KO 


THE  CAPITAL 

The  Roman  collection  is  the  most  complete.  Perhaps 
nowhere  outside  of  Italy  did  Caesar's  legionaries  leave 
such  a  quantity  of  personal  property.  Every  one  of  their 
camps  has  proved  to  be  a  mine  of  weapons,  armor,  and 
copper  coins.  Their  temples  dotted  the  Ardennes.  Their 
graveyards  stretched  across  the  continent.  Their  villas, 
buried  beneath  the  wreckage  of  barbarian  conquest  but 
still  preserving  much  of  their  original  beauty,  occupied 
many  a  nook  in  the  Moselle  country.  Bit  by  bit  these 
treasure-troves  have  come  to  light  and  the  duchy  is  fitting 
them  together  in  a  picture  of  the  Roman  occupation  in  its 
bloody  beginnings,  the  flower  of  its  greatness,  and  its  de- 
cline. 

True  Romance  does  not  die  though  the  page  on  which 
it  be  written  be  burned  and  the  ashes  cast  to  the  winds. 

At  the  end  of  the  bridge  leading  from  the  Bock  is  the 
ancient  Marche  au  Poissons,  which  marked  the  boundary 
of  Siegf  roid's  nascent  city  at  the  time  when  Melusine  dis- 
appeared. It  was  in  this  vicinity  that  Jean  Beck,  come 
back  from  the  wars  to  be  governor,  found  the  wife  that  he 
had  deserted.  Not  far  away  was  the  famous  Puit  Rouge, 
the  well  sunk  by  the  Austrians.  The  neighborhood  still 
bears  the  marks  of  a  strangely  isolated  community,  a  city 
within  a  city. 

The  Letzeburgers  inhabited  this  section.  It  is  not  dif- 
ficult to  trace  their  name  to  "Lutzelbourg,"  the  first  cor- 
ruption of  the  city's  ancient  designation  "Lucilinbur- 

151 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

hue."  But  while  the  rest  of  the  capital  was  making  "Lux- 
emburg" out  of  "Lutzelbourg,"  the  group  of  market-folk 
who  lived  near  the  Marche  de  Poissons  were  twisting 
their  tongues  to  different  pronunciations. 

I  asked  a  young  woman  of  Gosseldange  one  time  just 
who,  what,  and  why  the  "Letzeburgers"  were. 

She  replied,  proud  of  her  ability  to  tell  me  in  Eng- 
lish: 

"They  are  people  who  live  in  the  Stadt  Luxemburg. 
They  have  been  there  long  time.  Always,  I  think.  Their 
women  dress  like  their  grandmothers  dressed.  And  they 
speak  a  language  that  is  very  difficile  to  understand.  It 
is  not  French.  It  is  not  German.  It  is  not  Luxemburg. 
It  is  Letzeburg." 

There  is  much  of  Luxemburg  in  this  neighborhood  that 
is  not  French,  nor  German,  nor  Luxemburg.  Turn  south- 
ward in  the  Rue  du  Gouvernement.  It  is  a  winding  way, 
cobbled  and  sloping  and  hemmed  in  closely  with  shops. 
A  few  brief  paces,  and  it  leads  out  of  Letzeburg  into  the 
era  of  the  Spanish  renaissance.  To  the  left,  without  gar- 
den, walk,  or  terrace  to  embellish  it,  stands  the  Palais 
Grand  Ducal, — the  Hotel  de  Ville  of  Mansf  eld's  time, — 
a  building  that  holds  a  unique  place  in  contrast  to  its  sur- 
roundings if  not  in  its  own  worth  as  an  example  of  Span- 
ish architecture. 

This  building  is  old  enough  to  have  its  legends, — prob- 
ably has  enough  of  them  if  one  would  take  time  to  un- 

152 


THE  CAPITAL 

earth  them  from  the  mass  of  documents  in  the  museum, 
— but  it  was  only  a  year  or  two  ago  that  it  figured  in  a 
story  which  the  grandchildren  of  the  present  generation 
will  some  day  hear  coupled  with  the  myth  of  Melusine. 
In  the  Krummerweg  on  which  it  faces  there  arose  a  revo- 
lution, an  opera-bouffe  sort  of  affair  in  which  no  one  was 
killed  and  few  hurt,  and  after  the  tumult  and  the  shout- 
ing had  died,  a  beautiful  princess  went  into  exile. 

Luxemburg's  status  after  the  war  was  a  matter  which 
occupied  much  of  the  conversation  of  the  populace,  who, 
however  much  they  might  be  interested,  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  settling  it.  The  capital's  politics  sud- 
denly developed  a  number  of  factions.  One  group — a 
rather  unthinking  group — believed  that  Luxemburg 
should  remain  in  the  German  customs  federation  and  take 
pot-luck  with  Germany.  Another  faction  wished  coali- 
tion with  France,  another  favored  a  treaty  with  Bel- 
gium, a  fourth  was  openly  advocating  the  establishment 
of  a  republic. 

Marie  Adelaide,  a  girl  about  twenty-four  years  old, 
was  grand-duchess,  and  for  all  that  she  was  the  ideal 
princess  of  medieval  romance  in  a  modern  setting, — 
beautiful,  intelligent,  and  accomplished, — she  was  not 
particularly  popular.  The  Germans  had  lost  the  war. 
And  it  was  noised  abroad  that  Marie  had  been  over- 
friendly  toward  the  Germans.  It  does  not  pay,  even  in 
Luxemburg,  to  back  a  losing  horse. 

153 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Storm-clouds  began  to  gather  immediately  after  the 
signing  of  the  armistice,  although  Marie  did  much  to  re- 
trieve her  reputation  as  a  diplomatist  by  inviting  the 
Americans  to  occupy  the  grand  duchy.  This  manoeuver, 
which  placed  Luxemburg  before  the  world  in  the  light  of 
a  neutral  looking  to  the  conqueror  of  its  invaders  for 
the  protection  and  restoration  of  its  nationality,  did  much 
to  prevent  an  annexation  to  France  along  with  the  Alsace 
and  Lorraine  of  which  it  was  once  a  part.  Also,  it  in- 
sured payment  for  all  damage  that  might  be  done  by  the 
troops  of  occupation. 

The  Thirty-third  and  the  Fifth  divisions  of  the 
American  Expeditionary  Forces  were  moved  forward 
from  the  Meuse  into  the  grand  duchy  and  internal  dis- 
order on  any  large  scale  became  impossible.  But  a  dis- 
gruntled people  pay  little  attention  to  bayonets.  Secret 
agitation  continued  in  Luxemburg  city  until  January 
16,  1919,  when  all  of  the  factions  decided  simultaneously 
upon  action. 

An  American  captain,  in  the  city  on  leave  of  absence 
when  the  uprising  came,  has  given  an  eye-witness  account 
of  it: 

The  city  was  going  on  about  its  business  of  building  villainous 
waffles  for  the  American  trade  and  spending  in  sedate  luxury  the 
wealth  extracted  from  the  Germans  during  the  invasion.  The 
street  cars  clattered  along  on  their  quaint  little  square  wheels.  The 
town  belles  in  their  plaid  coats  that  until  recently  had  been  Ameri- 
can horse  covers,  took  the  air  on  the  outer  boulevard.     The  motor- 


THE  CAPITAL 

ists  wrangled  for  petrol  at  a  municipal  filling  station  on  the  Arlon 
road.  The  atmosphere  was  cold  and  clear.  The  capital  bent  upon 
minding  its  own  affairs  gave  no  hint  of  what  was  in  the  air. 

So  might  Pompeii  have  been  just  before  the  zero  hour  on  Ve- 
suvius. 

But  the  city  knew  what  was  going  on.  Toward  noon  groups  of 
anxious  citizens  of  the  variety  and  occupation  commonly  seen  in 
front  of  American  baseball  score  boards  began  to  assemble  before 
the  brown  gates  of  the  ducal  palace. 

The  soldiers  of  the  palace  guard  were  a  colorful  bit  in  a  dull, 
drab  picture — youths  in  glittering  accoutrements  of  patent  leather, 
cerise,  green,  gold  braid,  silver  buckles,  and  cockades.  They  kept 
a  firm  grip  upon  Erfurt  rifles  to  which  bayonets  of  an  approved  Ger- 
man pattern  had  been  fixed. 

As  for  the  revolutionists,  they  were  as  remarkable  a  collection  of 
radicals  as  ever  assembled  to  overturn  a  government.  ...  A  gro- 
cer's boy  with  a  round  cheese  under  his  arm,  stolid  burghers  with 
sharp  pointed  mustaches,  a  few  old  men  armed  with  crutches  and 
canes,  and  a  bespectacled  school  teacher  with  an  umbrella  were  in 
the  foreground. 

The  stage  was  set  for  comic  opera.  It  remained  only  for  some 
one  to  set  the  characters  in  motion.  This  task  fell  to  the  prima 
donna  herself.  The  Grand  Duchess,  Marie  Adelaide  .  .  .  stepped 
out  upon  a  little  iron  balcony  and  raised  her  hand.  The  mob  ceased 
its  murmuring. 

There  followed,  according  to  this  witness's  account  of 
the  proceedings,  a  review  of  the  situation  by  the  beautiful 
Marie,  a  brief  effectiveness,  and  then  tumult. 

The  lame,  the  halt,  and  the  blind  gathered  there  in  the 
Rue  du  Gouvernement  had  come  for  violence  and  sud- 
denly decided  against  any  argument  that  the  grand- 
duchess  might  advance.    There  were  roars  for  blood,  in 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

which  the  republicans  were  loudest,  a  sudden  movement 
toward  the  startled  sentries, — all  of  the  usual  indications 
of  mob  spirit  in  the  ascendant. 

The  turmoil  was  increased  by  the  anguished  shouts  of 
the  sentries.  An  officer  commanded  that  the  machine- 
guns  be  mounted.  Presently  came  the  tremulous  report 
of  a  subaltern  that  the  machine-guns  were  not  to  be 
found,  that  both  of  them  had  been  stolen. 

"The  verdammte  Americans  I"  shouted  the  officer, 
leaping  quickly  to  conclusions.  "They  must  have  stolen 
them  from  our  soldiers." 

All  of  this  would  have  been  ludicrous  had  not  the  life 
of  a  princess  and  the  destinies  of  a  nation  hung  in  the 
balance. 

The  crisis  was  at  hand  and  Marie — ever  the  leader, 
ever  the  princess — met  it.  She  announced  in  an  imperi- 
ous tone  that  she  had  abdicated  in  favor  of  her  sister  Char- 
lotte. While  the  thick  wits  of  the  populace  were  work- 
ing with  this  unexpected  development  she  left  the  bal- 
cony and  started  into  exile. 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  in  the  throng  shortly 
after  that.  But  the  abdication  of  Marie  and  the  accession 
of  Charlotte  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  A  platoon  of 
American  military  police  had  rounded  the  corner  out  of 
the  Place  Guillaume  and  had  begun,  with  business-like 
speed,  to  clear  the  street. 

156 


THE  CAPITAL 

The  burghers  went  home.  The  teacher  journeyed  on- 
ward to  his  school.  The  grocer's  boy  remembered  that 
he  had  been  sent  to  deliver  a  cheese. 

So  ended  the  revolution. 

Marie  Adelaide  went  north  to  Berg,  remained  there  a 
few  days,  and  crossed  into  Germany.  A  year  later  she 
entered  an  Italian  convent. 

Two  spidery  bridges  lead  from  the  old  city  to  the  newer 
suburb  in  which  the  railroad  station  is  the  most  important 
building.  One  of  these,  the  Pont  Adolphe,  finished  in 
1903,  is  a  white  stone  masterpiece  that  spans  the  Petrusse 
in  a  single  arch  of  feather  grace.  Beyond  it  are  several 
hotels  and  some  questionable  cabarets. 

Near  the  Gare  Centrale  stands  a  champagne  warehouse 
on  the  site  of  an  old  fortress  tower.  It  is  said  that  a  tun- 
nel led  from  this  spot  to  the  Bock.  At  any  rate,  a  network 
of  subterranean  passages  have  been  discovered  striking 
down  toward  the  level  of  the  valley.  Like  parts  of  the 
Bock  itself,  they  have  been  put  to  excellent  use  as  wine- 
cellars. 

Within  the  next  thousand  years  there  can  never  be  an- 
other Luxemburg.  Yonder  a  sad-faced  gargoyle  that  has 
seen  "towns  burned  and  murder  done  and  great  kings 
turned  to  a  little  bitter  mold,"  weeps  rusty  tears  upon 
the  worn  flags ;  a  tuneless  song,  plaintive  and  quavering, 
floats  up  from  a  near-by  rathskeller.    Time  has  not  passed 

157 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

this  city.  A  century  has  lost  itself  in  the  mazes  of  its 
crooked  alleys.  Certainly  it  is  the  city  of  the  cloak 
and  sword,  an  eternal  mystery  in  which  night  is  an  ac- 
complice. 

Disparting  towers 
Trembling  all  precipitate  down  dashed, 
Rattling  around,  loud  thundering  to  the  moon. 


158 


CHAPTER  X 
ANSEMBOURG 


The  Lady  of  the  Spinning  Wheel 

Love  is  strong  as  death ; 

— The  Song  of  Solomon,  viii,  6. 


CHAPTER  X 

ANSEMBOURG 

THE  white  mists  were  clinging  to  the  rocky  hill- 
tops and  a  fine  spring  rain  was  beating  into  the 
valley,  stirring  the  turbulent  little  Mamer  to 
iridescent  froth  and  releasing  from  the  groves  and  gar- 
dens the  scent  of  fresh  verdure  mixed  with  pine.  Ansem- 
bourg's  straggling  little  street  was  washed  white  and  was 
deserted  save  for  an  ancient  dame  plodding  along  in  the 
wake  of  an  irresponsible  cow. 

The  firs  on  the  cliff  sides  seemed  gray-blue  and  lumin- 
ous, and  the  red  escarpments  gleamed  like  polished  gran- 
ite under  the  cascading  rivulets  from  the  heights.  The 
dozen  houses  of  the  village  that  cluster  at  the  bottom  of 
the  western  crag  were  plumed  with  smoke  that  flattened 
under  the  rain  and  spread  out  in  a  cirrus  cloud  as  reluc- 
tant to  leave  the  earth  as  the  wraiths  that  have  haunted 
this  district  since  the  days  of  the  first  crusade.  The 
pounding  of  the  forge,  Ansembourg's  chief  excuse  for  a 
modern  existence,  combined  distantly  with  the  murmur  of 
rushing  waters  in  the  ditches  beside  the  white  road.  In  a 
dim  overtone  blended  the  clatter  of  dishes  and  the  voices 
of  women  and  children. 

161 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

On  its  rock  high  over  the  town  bulked  the  battlemented 
ruin  of  the  great  castle, — grim,  formidable,  overwhelm- 
ing, even  with  tower  and  wall  and  buttress  softened  to 
shadows  by  the  veils  of  the  rain. 

There  are  other  castles  in  Luxemburg  as  large  as  An- 
sembourg,  many  of  them  stronger  if  preservation  be  an  in- 
dication of  strength,  but  none  placed  on  a  more  inacces- 
sible vantage-point  or  more  imposing  at  first  view. 

Perspective  plays  weird  tricks  with  this  battered 
schloss  and  its  feudal  town.  For  all  of  its  distance  upon 
the  steep  cliff  and  its  loss  of  height  through  the  influences 
of  enemy  artillery  and  the  wasting  ages,  it  easily  domi- 
nates the  landscape,  greater  to  the  eye  than  village  or  for- 
est or  natural  escarpment.  There  is  an  instant  impres- 
sion of  size  that  lingers  even  after  the  proportions  of 
the  view  adjust  themselves  and  one  sees  that  the  eagle's 
nest  on  the  crag  is  a  bit  over  bold  in  advancing  its  claims 
to  attention. 

The  seigneurs  who  built  Ansembourg  back  in  the  hazy 
centuries  where  their  history  is  lost  paid  little  attention 
to  roads.  A  meager  path  cuts  up  from  the  village  through 
the  cliff  woods  at  a  heart-catching  angle,  probably  along 
a  trail  that  was  once  a  bridle-path  for  the  horsemen  of  the 
castle.  For  the  greater  portion  of  its  twisting  course  it  is 
squarely  beneath  the  ramparts  within  easy  aim  for  the 
wielders  of  tar-pot  and  lead-ladle  who  once  paced  those 
battlements,  watchers  in  the  castle's  defense. 

162 


ANSEMBOURG 

A  last  quick  turn  and  steep  gradient  brings  one  to  the 
plateau  and  a  turnip-patch  beneath  the  ivy-covered  tur- 
rets of  the  outer  wall. 

The  schloss  seen  from  close  at  hand  exhibits  greater 
beauties  than  might  be  suspected  in  a  view  from  the  town 
below. 

The  great  piles  of  masonry  sweep  up  to  undreamed-of 
vastnesses,  damaged  only  slightly  by  the  marksmanship 
of  Boufflers,  yielding  only  partially  to  the  destructive 
hands  of  wind  and  weather.  An  iron-studded  door,  as 
solid  to-day  as  it  was  eight  or  nine  hundred  years  ago, 
swings  on  a  ponderous  hinge  below  an  arched  gateway. 
A  black  pup  perhaps  a  year  old  guards  the  crumbling 
threshold  with  an  air  of  confident  proprietorship. 

Pull  the  wire  loop  at  the  right  of  the  door  and  at  the 
left  of  the  dog.  A  bell  with  a  tone  like  that  of  a  buoy 
on  a  dismal  reef  clangs  somewhere  in  an  echoing  corri- 
dor. There  come  the  clatter  of  wooden  shoes  and  the 
thudding  of  several  great  bolts  being  pulled  from  their 
niches  in  the  stone  arch  of  the  doorway.  The  great  oaken 
barrier  swings  back  and  a  boy  twelve  years  old  smiles  a 
welcome  which  he  translates  in  his  native  patois  and 
French. 

Visitors  are  not  frequent  at  Ansembourg.  The  tor- 
tuous unpleasantness  of  the  upward  climb  devised  to  dis- 
courage the  enemies  of  the  graf  now  serves  a  similar  pur- 
pose in  the  fending  off  of  tourists.    The  casual  sight-seer 

163 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

is  quick  to  fortify  himself  with  the  belief  that  one  castle  is 
like  every  other  castle  and  to  promise  himself  that  in  mak- 
ing one  exploration  that  will  do  for  all  he  will  find  a  ruin 
easier  to  get  to  and  closer  to  a  large  town.  The  few  who 
do  brave  the  precipice  consequently  find  a  guide  who  con- 
siders them  guests  and  chatters  a  volume  of  local  gossip 
as  different  from  the  set  speech  of  the  usual  castle  guard- 
ian as  a  boy's  quick  confidence  differs  from  grown-up 
avarice. 

"Come  in,"  invited  this  unexpected  sentry. 

I  followed  into  a  wide  courtyard  beyond  which  was  a 
second  wall,  and  felt  that  I  had  stepped  back  eons. 

A  great  mass  of  crumbling  stone  stables  and  ancient 
barrack-rooms  crowded  the  inner  side  of  the  wall  through 
which  we  had  just  come.  Some  of  the  buildings  still  were 
sufficiently  in  repair  to  provide  shelter  for  farming-im- 
plements. Others  presented  an  inferno  of  tumbling  but- 
tress and  shattered  roof. 

Back  toward  the  west  where  the  enceinte  turned  to  fol- 
low the  wall  of  the  schloss  a  new  stable  had  been  built 
with  the  rocks  and  timbers  of  the  old.  In  it  two  great 
Belgian  horses  were  munching  their  hay,  apparently  ob- 
livious of  the  ghostly  steeds  that  crowded  them, — ac- 
coutred war-horses  back  from  the  crusades,  beasts  of  the 
marvelous  stock  of  "Bayard"  whom  legend  will  keep 
alive  forever. 

A  brass-bound  door  led  into  a  dark,  narrow  passage- 

164 


ANSEMBOURG 

way  that  smelled  of  musty  hay.  It  gave  into  a  second 
court,  much  smaller  than  the  first,  which  probably  before 
the  era  of  Boufflers  and  his  fifteen-pound  notices  of  evic- 
tion had  been  a  covered  anteroom  in  the  main  portion  of 
the  castle.  To  the  right  of  it  stood  the  chapel,  three  sides 
of  it  well  preserved,  the  fourth  open  but  protected  from 
the  weather  by  the  rest  of  the  building  which  towered 
above  it.  The  altar  still  was  recognizable  as  such,  dingy 
but  intact,  as  were  a  number  of  carved  saints  in  niches 
about  the  walls.    As  for  the  rest — ruin. 

Plows,  manure-forks,  shovels,  the  rusted  and  out-worn 
accumulations  of  abandoned  farm  paraphernalia  leaned 
against  splintered  prie-dieu  and  crumbling  altar  rail.  A 
gray  light  filtered  through  cobwebs  that  seemed  to  be  as 
old  as  the  castle  and  added  to  the  depressing  influence  of 
the  reflection  that  a  peasant's  carelessness  of  a  wonderful 
heritage  works  greater  havoc  than  the  cannon-balls  of  a 
Boufflers. 

The  court  was  bridged  by  a  great  arch  that  at  one  time 
had  supported  part  of  the  central  donjon.  The  ivy  was 
on  it,  glistening  with  the  rain.  At  each  end  of  it  was  a  pot 
of  red  geraniums,  proof  that  a  woman  was  part  of  the 
latest  garrison  of  old  Ansembourg.  A  red  bird  in  a  wicker 
cage  ruffled  its  wings  near  the  doorway.  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  in  this  instance  if  in  no  other  the  cannon- 
eers of  Louis  XIV  had  been  artists.  Their  guns  had  made 
a  peaceful  garden  out  of  what  once  was  probably  a  very 

165 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

uncomfortable  set  of  living-quarters.    That  ivy-covered 
arch  was  worth  two  towers. 

One  could  not  see  the  valley  from  this  point.  The 
outer  wall  of  the  fortifications  was  considerably  more 
than  head-high,  and  blind. 

The  boy  led  to  a  narrow  door  across  the  court.  We 
wiped  our  feet  on  a  rag  rug  and  entered  the  ancient  salle 
des  chevaliers.  Here  was  a  real  surprise.  The  tiled  floor 
with  its  mosaic  in  the  arms  of  Ansembourg  at  the  thresh- 
old was  whole,  though  worn  a  bit.  Pillar  and  arch  and 
carven  fireplace  had  not  suffered  during  the  ages.  But 
the  impression  of  grandeur  was  gone.  The  stone  walls 
had  been  plastered  and  whitewashed.  A  wooden  sink 
stretched  across  the  stone  seats  at  the  tall  window  on  the 
valley  side. 

A  queer  little  stove,  that  looked  like  nothing  so  much 
as  a  diminutive  bath-tub  on  stilts,  stood  before  the  hearth 
of  the  knights  and  stuck  a  curving  stovepipe  through  a 
sheet-iron  screen  that  covered  the  front  of  the  fireplace. 
Over  the  chiseled  arms  of  the  ancient  house  at  one  end  of 
the  mantelpiece  stood  a  brass  crucifix.  At  the  other  end — 
sic  transit  gloria  mundil — clattered  an  American  alarm- 
clock.  Where  the  mailed  knights  had  mulled  their  wine  a 
pot-au-feu  bubbled  a  message  of  approaching  dinner. 
Where  pewter  steins  had  clanked  on  a  long  oak  table,  a 
baby  beat  lustily  upon  the  front  of  her  high  chair  with  a 
spoon. 

166 


ANSEMBOURG 

The  boy  opened  a  door  at  the  left  of  the  fireplace  and 
we  proceeded  up  through  a  tower  in  a  spiraling  ascent. 
At  the  second  floor  the  guide  halted. 

"It  was  here,"  he  declared  impressively,  "that  Graf 
Philip  of  Ansembourg  quarreled  with  his  wife.  He 
stabbed  her,  sir,  drove  a  knife  into  her  heart,  and  she 
tumbled  all  the  way  to  the  bottom  of  these  stairs. 

"When  my  great-great-great-grandfather  bought  the 
castle,  two  hundred  years  ago,  the  stains  were  still  on  the 
stairs.  My  grandmother  told  me  that  in  her  day  they 
used  to  come  back  every  time  trouble  threatened  the  in- 
mates of  the  house.  But  of  that  I  know  nothing.  I  used 
to  look  carefully  every  day,  but  I  never  saw  them. 

"Graf  Philip  was  very  remorseful  after  the  deed.  He 
stabbed  himself  also  and  fell  at  her  feet.  And  the  church 
refused  to  bury  him  in  holy  ground  and  there  was  quite  a 
row  about  it." 

Passmore  has  described  Old  Ansembourg  as  a  haunt  of 
satyrs,  and  viewed  from  the  vantage-point  of  the  curving 
stone  stairs  it  merits  the  description.  There  was  some- 
thing blood-curdling  in  the  boy's  simple  recital  of  a  mur- 
der and  suicide  of  hundreds  of  years  ago,  though  it  dif- 
fered not  at  all  from  the  gruesome  events  that  one  could 
read  about  on  the  front  pages  of  the  newspapers  in  any 
nation.  It  seemed,  somehow,  more  atrocious  as  a  crime 
with  a  medieval  setting. 

167 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

There  came  a  flash  of  white  and  unconsciously  I 
gasped. 

But  it  was  not  the  ghost  of  the  Grdfin  that  whitened 
the  wall.  It  was  the  sudden  light  from  an  upper  room 
into  which  the  boy  had  opened  the  tower  door. 

There  was  little  medieval  or  romantic  about  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  floor  across  which  our  course  next  led. 
It  v/as  a  dry,  dusty  place,  odorous  of  grain  and  resin,  used 
partly  as  a  storehouse  for  oats  and  wheat  and  partly  as 
family  sleeping-quarters.  The  partitions  were  rough 
pine  planks.  The  floor,  although  evidently  laid  across 
the  seasoned  rafters  of  the  ancient  schloss,  was  thin  and 
poorly  fastened  and  had  an  exciting  way  of  sagging  under 
one's  feet.  The  boy  escorted  me  through  the  partition 
toward  a  spot  where  a  rickety  ladder  pursued  a  crooked 
course  to  a  hatchway  in  the  roof — shades  of  Siegf roid !  a 
thatched  roof.    Then  suddenly  he  stopped. 

"Do  you  hear  the  spinning-wheel  ?"  he  asked. 

I  listened. 

The  house  was  quiet.  The  rain  had  stopped,  appar- 
ently, for  there  was  no  patter  on  the  roof.  From  a  very 
great  distance  came  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice, — so  soft 
that  the  words  were  not  distinguishable. 

And  then,  from  a  farther  distance  still,  came  a  methodi- 
cal creek  and  whir,  intangible,  indescribable.  It  took  no 
great  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  identify  it  as  the 
sound  of  a  spinning-wheel,  and  my  credulity  had  not  yet 

168 


Where  the  "Lady  of  tlie  SiMnnin<?  Wheel'"  wove  the  wedding  garment  that  was  her  shroud 


From  the  Spinning  Wheel  Lady's  Window.     View  from  the  corner  tower  of  Old  Ansembourg 

OLD  ANSEMBOURG 


ANSEMBOURG 

been  placed  on  its  guard.    I  had  not  yet  heard  the  legend 
of  the  Spinning-wheel  Lady. 

"It  sounds  like  a  spinning-wheel,"  I  admitted.    "What 

IS  It  f 

"A  spinning-wheel,"  replied  the  boy  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone.  "The  sound  of  it  has  always  been  here  in  the 
building  and  always  will  be." 

Then  he  told  me  the  tragic  story  of  the  lady  and  her 
fateful  spinning. 

She  was  a  prisoner  brought  from  Burgundy  or  France 
to  the  ancient  eagle's  nest  by  a  latter-day  caveman  with 
whom  a  show  of  force  and  expressions  of  love  were  syn- 
onymous terms.  He  adored  her  and  proved  it  by  killing  a 
number  of  men  in  accomplishing  her  abduction. 

But  she  appears  to  have  been  a  haughty  lady.  She  did 
not  take  kindly  to  her  captivity,  nor  to  her  captor,  and 
gave  him  to  understand  it  in  no  equivocal  words. 

The  love-sick  graf  then  proposed  marriage — evidently 
something  of  a  concession — and  sought  to  have  the  nup- 
tials celebrated  as  soon  as  he  had  safely  installed  her 
in  the  castle.  She  appeared  to  be  resigned  to  her  lot.  But 
she  begged  of  him  the  boon  of  a  delay. 

She  said  that  ill  luck  would  certainly  follow  her  and  all 
connected  with  her  unless  she  be  allowed  to  spin  and 
weave  the  material  for  a  wedding-garment  of  the  sort  pre- 
scribed by  the  traditions  of  her  people. 

The  superstitious  graf  granted  her  request,  and  night 

169 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

and  day  the  castle  was  filled  with  the  squeak  of  the  pedal 
and  the  whir  of  the  wheel. 

After  a  long  time  the  graf  came  to  her  and  demanded 
that  she  make  an  end  to  the  spinning-business.  She  asked 
for  two  more  days. 

At  midnight  of  the  second  night  the  graf  came  to  her 
again. 

"Is  the  wedding-garment  finished'?"  he  inquired 
roughly.  He  did  not  notice  that  she  had  moved  close  to  a 
window  overlooking  the  valley. 

She  peered  out,  searching  in  vain  among  the  trees  for 
a  sign  of  the  rescue  party  for  which  she  had  been  waiting. 
At  the  castle  gates  should  have  been  her  lover  from 
France,  fulfilling  the  promise  he  had  made  to  her  just  be- 
fore her  capture.  But  he  was  n't  there.  She  turned  back 
to  the  graf. 

"No,  sir,"  she  said  quietly.  "My  wedding-garment  is 
not  finished,  but  my  shroud  is." 

She  threw  the  mantle  about  her  shoulders  and  leaped 
before  he  could  reach  her. 

And  her  body  fell  on  the  soft  moss  of  the  hillside  two 
hundred  feet  below,  almost  across  the  saddle  of  a  French 
warrior  leading  his  retainers  to  storm  the  castle.  Her 
lover  had  come  too  late. 

I  listened  attentively  when  the  boy  had  done  speaking. 
As  before,  the  creak  and  whir  trickled  out  of  dusty  space ; 
there  was  no  tracing  the  sound. 

170 


ANSEMBOURG 

An  air  current  under  a  loose  board?  Perhaps.  An  un- 
fastened door  in  a  subterranean  passage  long  since  for- 
gotten*? Possibly.  A  squeak  is  a  squeak  and  a  whir  is  a 
whir,  no  matter  what  causes  them.  But  I  felt  with  my 
guide  that  an  investigation  would  be  a  waste  of  time.  It 
was  much  more  satisfactory  to  feel  the  presence  of  the 
Lady  of  the  Spinning-wheel,  to  fancy  her  standing  in 
her  garments  of  star-dust  where  the  window  had  opened 
out  over  the  ramparts. 

The  sun  had  come  out  when  we  emerged  through  the 
roof  to  the  top  of  a  wall  that  led  forward  to  the  arch  across 
the  inner  court.  There  was  warmth  in  the  air  and  the 
vigor  of  spring.  Hundreds  of  feet  below  the  valley  was 
smiling  with  a  new  whiteness  and  men  and  women  were 
astir  in  the  streets  of  the  village.  Across  the  promontory 
to  the  left  could  be  seen  the  spires  of  the  new  Chateau  An- 
sembourg,  a  brief  glimpse  through  the  trees  of  its  chapel 
and  crypt. 

Almost  directly  below  was  the  forge,  pounding  as  ener- 
getically to-day  as  it  pounded  when  Rollingen  founded 
it  there. 

There  is  a  legend  about  the  forge, — an  oft-told  legend 
that  has  displaced  the  Lady  of  the  Spinning-wheel  in  nar- 
ratives of  many  a  traveler.  The  noise  of  the  forge 
disturbed  the  sleep  of  the  graf  of  Ansembourg.  He  sent 
a  retainer  down  the  hill  one  day  to  demand  that  it  be 
closed. 

171 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

other  heraldic  devices  significant  of  the  marriages  that 
united  the  principal  families  of  Luxemburg  when  the 
graf s  abandoned  petty  enmities  to  fight  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der in  the  defense  of  a  common  country. 

The  park  is  cut  out  of  the  side  of  the  hill  at  the  front 
of  the  chateau.  Through  a  grove  of  mossy  firs  and 
beeches  a  staircase  of  stone  and  timber  extends  upward, 
two  hundred  and  fifty  steps,  to  the  door  of  a  chapel.  The 
effect  is  that  of  a  long  tunnel  in  cool,  shimmering,  living 
green,  ending  in  a  vista  of  creamy  marble,  iridescent  in 
the  sunlight,  a  picture  from  the  Arabian  Nights. 

Behind  the  chapel  is  a  burial  vault,  containing  the 
tomb  and  effigy  of  some  crusading  Ansembourg  in  full 
armor.  He  is  worthy  of  note  in  that  he  is  the  only  dead 
noble  for  miles  around  to  whom  no  spectacular  legend  has 
yet  been  attached.  He  seems  perfectly  satisfied  with 
his  peaceful  resting-place  at  the  head  of  the  long  stairs 
and,  so  far  as  can  be  learned,  has  left  the  country-side  to 
deal  unhampered  with  the  interesting  ghosts  of  the  upper 
castle. 


174 


CHAPTER  XI 
HOLLENFELS 


The  Hollow  Rock  and  its  Dream  of  Fair  Women 

Curse  away! 
And  let  me  tell  thee,  Beausant,  a  wise  proverb 
The  Arabs  have — "Curses  are  like  young  chickens, 
And  still  come  home  to  roost." 

— Lytton. 


WINDOWS    OF    THE    CHAPEL 


LOOKING    FROM    THE    RAMPART 
Still  well  preserved,  into  the  roofless,  floorless  room  that  was  the  graf's  bed  chamber 

HOLLENFELS 


CHAPTER  XI 


HOLLENFELS 


THE  proper  way  in  which  to  see  Hollenfels  is  to 
circle  the  rocky  precipice  that  juts  out  above 
Marienthal,  to  humor  the  tortuous  whimsies  of 
the  mountain  road,  to  rest  beneath  the  cool  shade  of  the 
pines  that  line  the  way,  and  to  come  suddenly  to  the 
edge  of  the  moraine  beyond  which  the  spear  point  of  the 
castle  throws  itself  into  the  sky  with  an  awe-inspiring 
grandeur.  To  see  it  thus  is  to  realize  little  of  the  wasting 
forces  that  have  made  it  a  ruin.  For  its  massive  exterior 
has  taken  little  cognizance  of  the  sands  that  run  through 
the  hour-glass  and  the  leaves  that  fall  from  the  calendar. 

It  is  one  of  the  best-preserved  castles  in  the  duchy. 
Its  roof  is  gone  and  rains  and  frosts  have  cracked  away 
much  of  the  masonry  of  its  ramparts,  but  ages  of  neglect 
have  not  damaged  it  so  that  a  few  hundred  dollars  would 
not  make  it  habitable.  Hence,  when  one  comes  suddenly 
upon  it  from  below,  it  strikes  the  senses  not  so  much  as 
a  ruined  monument  in  the  graveyard  of  the  past  as  the 
living  type  of  a  revivified  feudalism.  It  breathes  realism 
into  the  vague  memories  of  chivalry  and  carries  forward 
a  dim  and  legendary  age  into  the  tangible  present. 

For  continuity's  sake,  however,  it  may  be  best  to  walk 

177 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

up  the  long  steps  from  the  new  Ansembourg,  past  the 
chevalier  asleep  in  his  grotto  behind  the  chapel,  and  skirt 
the  escarpment  of  the  Ansembourg  ravine  to  the  high 
plateau  beyond.  From  there  to  Hollenfels  is  a  distance 
of  about  two  kilometers,  most  of  the  way  by  good  wagon 
road. 

In  the  days  when  the  houses  of  Hollenfels  and  Ansem- 
bourg first  merged,  country-side  rumor  has  it,  there  was  a 
tunnel  all  the  way  from  one  of  the  castles  to  the  other. 
In  view  of  the  fact  that  erosion  by  underground  waters 
has  produced  many  caves  and  grottoes  in  this  vicinity,  the 
tunnel  does  not  appear  to  have  been  so  stupendous  an  en- 
gineering feat  or  so  far  from  the  realm  of  probability. 
Another  rumor  links  Hollenfels  with  Schoenfels,  which 
lies  a  greater  distance  away.  But  whether  such  subways 
ever  existed  or  not,  they  have  vanished  now. 

Hollenfels  at  its  busiest  is  a  sleepy  place,  most  of  it 
a  frightened  little  town  of  white  and  buff  buildings  clus- 
tered in  a  single  street  that  ends  at  the  castle  gate.  There 
are  a  few  isolated  farm  dwellings,  but  they  have  a  dis- 
couraged look.  Like  French  towns,  the  villages  of  Lux- 
emburg are  built  with  their  houses  elbow  to  elbow,  in  ac- 
cordance, probably,  with  a  custom  that  originated  in 
the  feudal  days  when  space  within  the  protecting  walls 
was  limited. 

The  sun  that  was  breaking  through  the  rain  at  Ansem- 
bourg brings  a  steam  from  the  moist  street.    A  venerable 

178 


HOLLENFELS 

dame  drives  a  remarkable  equipage  to  the  cafe  in  the 
middle  of  the  town  and  dismounts. 

Whatever  the  proud  castle  may  offer  to  attract  the 
sight-seer  must  wait  for  a  closer  view  of  this  peculiar 
turnout.  It  consists  of  a  wagon  a  bit  larger  than  an  Amer- 
ican baby-carriage  drawn  by  a  donkey  which  differs  from 
a  St.  Bernard  dog  principally  in  the  demure  expression  of 
his  face.  Certainly  he  is  no  larger  than  a  dog  and  no  less 
shaggy. 

Madame  of  the  cart  is  a  peddler.  Her  wagon  is  stocked 
with  ironstone  china  of  a  durable  if  inelegant  variety. 
Apparently  she  has  had  a  successful  day. 

She  walks  into  the  cafe  and  sits  down  at  a  table  near 
the  door  where  she  can  watch  her  china  and  address  an 
occasional  word  to  her  impatient  steed.  She  informs  the 
donkey  in  many  words  of  gurgling  Luxembourgeois  that 
he  is  to  remain  in  the  center  of  the  road  until  she  re- 
turns. 

But  the  donkey  has  ideas  of  his  own.  The  sun  is  warm 
and  the  journey  has  been  long.  An  odor  of  Diekirch 
beer  wafts  out  from  the  cool  recesses  of  the  cafe.  The 
donkey  turns  squarely  about  and  follows  his  mistress 
into  the  big  room,  wagon,  china  and  all.  He  is  promptly 
insulted;  but  apparently  he  is  used  to  scoldings,  for  he 
blinks  once  or  twice,  then  brays  a  melodious  defiance. 

"There  is  only  one  way  to  silence  him,"  declares  the 
old  dame.    "He  is  thirsty.    Bring  a  bucket." 

179 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

The  bucket  is  brought  and  the  water  thoughtfully  pro- 
vided by  the  mistress  of  the  bar  is  thrown  into  the  street 
by  the  mistress  of  the  donkey.  It  is  then  filled  with  a 
generous  helping  of  foaming  beer  and  set  where  the  little 
beast  can  bury  his  nose  in  the  suds. 

The  modern  chateau  of  Hollenfels,  a  house  of  sixty 
rooms,  was  destroyed  by  the  French  torch-bearers.  But 
the  flames  made  slight  inroads  against  the  sturdy  rock 
construction  of  the  seventh-century  towers. 

Hollenfels  caps  a  rocky  promontory  jutting  out  into 
the  valley  of  the  Eisch.  On  three  sides  of  it  the  precipice 
drops  down  sheer  to  the  river  level.  On  the  fourth  an  ar- 
tificial moat  was  cut  to  a  depth  of  more  than  a  hundred 
feet.    A  drawbridge  gave  access  to  the  castle. 

Beyond  the  moat  was  the  outer  defense,  a  straight  wall 
across  the  cliif  with  all  the  conveniences  required  by  an- 
cient warfare, — fireplaces  for  the  brewing  of  hot  tar  and 
molten  lead,  and  overhanging  parapets  for  the  dropping 
of  tokens  upon  the  heads  of  unwelcome  visitors. 

The  roof  and  fifth  floor  of  the  castle  have  crumbled 
away,  but  the  remainder  of  the  place  is  much  as  it  was 
eight  centuries  ago.  The  path  of  the  guards  about  the 
upper  parapet  is  intact.  It  is  reached  without  difficulty 
by  a  remarkable  spiral  staircase  of  stone  in  a  corner  of  the 
square  tower.  The  kitchens  on  the  main  floor  are  filled 
wdth  age-old  rubbish,  but  the  guard-room  above  is  in  ex- 
cellent repair.    Much  of  the  mud  plaster,  applied  over 

180 


HOLLENFELS 

laths  of  thin  spruce  branches,  clings  to  the  walls,  and  the 
ornamental  carvings  of  the  huge  fireplace  are  clear-cut 
and  legible.  The  huge  oaken  beams  of  the  ceiling  are 
still  black  with  the  stains  of  smoke  that  rolled  from  the 
log  fire  as  the  retainers  of  the  graf  sat  at  their  long  table, 
dicing  for  the  proceeds  of  their  latest  raid. 

On  the  floor  above  is  the  salle  des  chevaliers,  gathering- 
place  of  the  elect,  a  high  vaulted  chamber,  the  ceiling  of 
which  is  supported  by  beautifully  carved  Gothic  arches. 
There  are  three  steps  leading  to  stone  window-seats  on 
each  side  of  an  ornate  fireplace  where  the  ladies  of  this 
little  court  knitted  chain-mail  sweaters  for  their  men- 
folk in  the  graf's  army,  or  fluttered  handkerchiefs,  signal- 
ing to  watchers  in  the  valley  their  hope  of  a  speedy  and 
effectual  release  from  a  captivity  that  was  quite  often 
the  lot  of  a  woman  who  chanced  to  be  beautiful. 

Above  the  salle  des  chevaliers  is  the  chapel,  now  roofed 
by  the  skies.  The  remnants  of  a  Corinthian  column,  a 
weather-beaten  mantel,  and  a  little  altar  set  in  the  recess 
of  a  Gothic  window  are  all  that  remain  of  its  ancient 
grandeur. 

The  fifth  floor  was  given  over  to  sleeping-chambers, 
the  sanctum  of  the  lord  of  the  house  and  his  family. 
A  fireplace,  covered  with  armorial  carvings,  clings 
despairingly  to  the  wall  above  the  broken  beams  that 
mark  the  line  of  the  departed  floor. 

The  artillery  of  Louis  XIV  was  called  in  in  the  mili- 

181 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

tary  operations  against  this  castle,  attacking  from  the 
plateau  beyond  the  moat.  Because  heavy  guns  were  lack- 
ing in  the  defenses,  Marshal  Boufflers  was  able  to  bring 
his  batteries  up  to  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  outer 
wall.  From  this  point  he  bombarded  the  tower  with  care- 
free abandon,  and,  judging  from  the  marks  on  the  stone 
walls,  the  flight  of  the  round  cannon-balls  as  they  bounced 
off  the  battlements  and  mowed  down  trees  for  hundreds 
of  meters  around  must  have  been  a  wonderful  sight  to  see. 

Their  effect  on  the  castle  was  terrific.  They  put  two 
dents  in  the  wall  above  the  second-floor  windows, 
smashed  off  a  cornice,  and  knocked  down  four  feet  of 
plaster  on  the  inside  of  the  parapet.  It  is  not  hard  to 
imagine  the  sturdy  defenders,  stunned  at  this  havoc,  man- 
ning their  tar-pots  and  lead-ladles  with  the  bravery  of 
desperation. 

One  of  the  cannon-balls  embedded  itself  in  a  soft  part 
of  the  south  wall  and  is  there  yet. 

To  this  day  the  crashing  of  the  artillery  about  the 
castle  can  be  heard  if  one's  ear  be  properly  attuned  to  the 
preternatural.  Through  the  centuries  the  Grand  Mon- 
arch has  kept  his  phantom  guns  in  action  beyond  the 
moat,  continuing  his  attack  upon  the  one  bit  of  military 
architecture  that  his  cannoneers  were  unable  to  alter  with 
solid  shot. 

The  castle  capitulated  after  the  bombardment,  prob- 
ably because  the  noise  of  the  guns  prevented  the  garrison 

182 


HOLLENFELS 

from  getting  any  sleep.  The  more  modern  portion  was 
burned  and  the  outer  wall  dismantled.  But  tradition 
has  it  that  the  knights  who  poured  the  hot  lead  got  away 
unscathed.  They  fled  from  the  place  via  the  legendary 
tunnel  that  ended  secretly  in  a  deep  well  and  curved 
down  through  the  mountain  to  Schoenfels,  three  or  four 
kilometers  distant. 

This  mysterious  tunnel,  rather  than  the  phantom  ar- 
tillery of  the  discomfited  Boufflers,  is  the  favorite  topic  of 
discussion  in  Hollenfels.  There  is  a  curse  on  the  tunnel, 
say  the  natives.  Several  times  men  have  gone  down  into 
the  well  to  search  for  the  secret  opening  of  the  long  pas- 
sageway and  have  died  in  the  attempt.  That  carbon  mon- 
oxid  might  have  had  something  to  do  with  the  operation 
of  the  curse  is,  of  course,  unlikely.  A  good  curse  has  no 
need  of  chemical  assistance. 

"Hollenfels  in  the  old  days  was  noted  for  the  beauti- 
ful women  of  the  castle,"  said  the  guide  as  we  stood  gaz- 
ing across  the  empty  hall  of  the  knights. 

I  could  well  believe  that.  It  would  have  been  true 
concerning  nearly  any  of  the  old  castles.  For  in  the  days 
of  the  robber  barons  female  beauty  went  farther  than 
noble  birth  and  the  man  who  was  strongest  on  the  battle- 
field got  the  fairest  wife.  It  would  have  been  more 
remarkable  if  the  women  of  Hollenfels  had  not  been 
beautiful. 

183 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

''There  is  a  story  connected  with  that,"  observed  the 
keeper  of  the  keys. 

And  here,  embellished  only  by  the  local  color  which  the 
battered  shell  of  the  castle  itself  supplies,  is  the  story 
he  told: 

Up  out  of  the  valley  rode  a  hundred  knights  in  gleam- 
ing mail,  the  sun  dancing  in  myriad  lights  from  casque 
and  shield  and  breastplate  and  uplifted  lance.  Iron 
chains  and  copper  headstalls  clanked  a  symphony  of 
triumph  as  the  wiry  Ardennes  horses,  tried  in  a  dozen 
battles  and  a  hundred  skirmishes,  tossed  their  proud 
heads  and  strained  at  the  bit  to  reach  the  shelter  that  they 
knew  would  be  waiting  for  them  above. 

They  rode  right  out  of  the  morning  sun, 
A  glimmering,  glittering  cavalcade 
Of  knights  and  ladies,  and  ever}'  one 
In  princely  sheen  arrayed. 

At  the  head  of  the  column,  on  a  black  Westphalian 
charger  that  blinked  quizzically  through  the  goggle-like 
eye-loops  of  a  brazen  bridle,  rode  John  of  Hollenfels, 
knight  of  the  castle. 

The  ladies  of  the  shining  pageant  were  three  in 
number, — Griselda,  a  comely  blonde,  whose  beautiful 
hair,  like  spun  flax  with  a  glint  of  copper  in  it,  flowed 
across  graceful  shoulders  and  fluttered  in  the  light  breeze, 
and  two  maids,  obviously  domestics  of  her  personal  reti-^ 
nue,  who  rode  Spanish  mules  by  her  side. 

184 


HOLLENFELS 

Griselda  appeared  to  be  unhappy,  but  her  head  was 
held  up  with  pride  as  she  blinked  to  keep  back  the  tears. 
She  gazed  unmoved  upon  the  heights  of  Hollenfels  and 
spoke  scarcely  a  word  to  the  resplendent  chevalier  who 
commanded  the  troop.  He  was  kind  enough  to  her,  soft- 
spoken  in  his  conversation  and  sharp  in  the  orders  he 
issued  to  his  vassals,  for  her  comfort.  The  light  of  love 
was  in  his  eyes,  the  lightning  flash  of  disdain  in  hers. 

Love  is  eternal.  It  was  born  into  the  world  with  Adam 
and  probably  will  continue  through  the  spheres  after 
Gabriel  blows  his  trump.    But  it  has  varying  aspects. 

In  those  days  love  was  not  necessarily  a  mutual  affair. 
Parents  arranged  marriages  to  suit  their  own  convenience 
and  children  usually  arranged  their  loves  to  suit  their 
weddings, — not  always  but  usually. 

So  with  Griselda.  Her  father,  proprietor  of  a  sad 
little  schloss  over  near  Treves,  had  grown  old  with  glory 
but  little  personal  cash.  His  fields  for  the  "taxing  of 
Jewish  peddlers,"  as  this  sort  of  plunder  was  euphemis- 
tically called,  had  been  narrowed  as  the  underpaid  men- 
at-arms  had  betaken  themselves  and  their  two-handed 
swords  to  other  masters.  He  had  been  unable  to  resist 
when  the  trained  killers  in  the  retinue  of  Hollenfels  rode 
up  to  his  gate  and  thundered  a  demand  for  his  surrender. 

Hollenfels  announced  that  he  had  come  to  pay  a 
friendly  call.  He  asked  for  the  hand  of  Griselda  in  mar- 
riage, and  forthwith  received  it.    Griselda's  father  knew 

185 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  meaning  of  such  a  request.  And  so  the  beautiful 
blonde,  the  most  coveted  prize  in  a  dozen  counties,  found 
herself  on  a  splendid  palfrey,  riding  toward  the  setting 
sun  where  the  crags  of  the  Ardennes  succeeded  the  gentler 
slopes  of  the  Moselle. 

As  the  cavalcade  advanced  along  the  ascending  trail, 
a  trumpeter  wound  his  horn  in  a  blast  that  echoed  like 
cathedral  bells  among  the  rocks.  From  the  castle  parapet 
arose  a  shout  of  welcome.  Banners  of  a  dozen  tints 
floated  from  the  loopholes  of  the  archers,  and  the  ram- 
parts were  crowded  with  women-folk  in  gala  attire. 

The  halberdiers  at  the  gates  pulled  the  deer's  foot 
attached  to  the  bell-cord  and  the  rumbling  of  gears  and 
weights  mingled  with  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  joyous 
shrieks  of  women,  the  screams  of  children,  and  the  deep- 
chested  roar  of  the  fighting-men.  Out  swung  the  gates 
of  the  exterior  cincture.  Down  fell  the  drawbridge  across 
the  dizzy  fosse.  In  rode  the  cavalcade  in  triumph,  across 
the  bridge  and  into  the  keep  itself,  where  the  tired  horse- 
men dismounted,  keen  upon  the  scent  of  roasting  pig  and 
spiced  wine  that  swept  up  from  the  great  kitchens  below. 

John  of  HoUenfels,  his  personal  lieutenant,  and  a 
page,  left  the  men  to  their  ribald  jesting  with  wives  and 
sweethearts,  while  they  escorted  Griselda  and  her  maids 
up  the  winding  stairs  to  the  hall  of  the  knights. 

The  tiles  of  the  floor  were  new  and  highly  polished. 

186 


HOLLENFELS 

Curtains  of  the  finest  of  German  tapestries  covered  the 
walls. 

A  soft,  warm  breeze  stirred  the  hangings  at  the  narrow 
windows  and  carried  a  breath  of  flowers  across  the  room. 
Against  the  wall  opposite  the  fireplace  a  long  oaken  table, 
with  a  stretched  leather  covering  tacked  at  the  sides  with 
brass  studs,  was  being  set  for  dinner. 

Griselda  sank  into  a  Spanish-leather  chair  and  took  off 
the  little  silver  cap  that  had  bound  her  hair.  She  gazed 
about  her  apathetically  as  a  cowled  priest  entered  the 
room,  and  listened  without  comment  as  she  heard  her 
virtues  recounted  by  the  kidnapper  whose  bride  she  was 
to  be. 

She  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  resent  the  attentions  of 
her  admirer.  She  had  been  schooled  in  the  customs  of 
her  times  and  was  reconciled.  After  all,  one  might  do 
worse  than  marry  the  lord  of  so  mighty  a  house. 

There  came  a  betrothal-feast  at  which  the  wines  of  the 
Moselle  and  the  sparkling  nectars  of  Rheims  were 
blended  in  profusion.  Hollenfels,  his  bride-to-be,  neigh- 
bors from  Simmern,  Ansembourg,  Schoenfels,  and 
Mersch,  and  other  notables  feasted  in  the  salle  des 
chevaliers. 

In  the  squad-room  below,  the  men-at-arms  engaged  in 
a  similar  celebration  and  their  echoing  mirth  went  down 
through  the  ravine  to  Marienthal,  where  the  superioress 

187 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

crossed  herself,  convinced  that  some  new  devilment  was 
afoot. 

All  day  the  festivities  continued  and  far  into  the  night. 
Long  before  the  last  of  the  noble  drinkers  had  fallen 
beneath  the  table  Griselda  had  retired. 

A  chamber  on  the  top  floor  of  the  castle,  a  bit  bleak  to 
be  the  dwelling-place  of  one  so  honored,  was  placed  at 
her  disposal.  Hangings  similar  to  those  of  the  salle  des 
chevaliers  hid  the  chiseled  walls  save  where  two  finely 
carved  panels  flanked  the  fireplace.  The  hearth,  too,  bore 
a  resemblance  to  that  of  the  knights'  hall.  It  fed  the 
same  flue  and  hence  was  in  the  same  relative  position  at 
the  side  of  the  room.  Its  mantelpiece  also  bore  the  Hol- 
lenfels-Ansembourg  arms  in  which  the  Lion  of  Luxem- 
burg cavorted  formally.  A  short  bed  of  elaborately 
carved  oak  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  chamber.  Its 
"springs"  were  laced  thongs  of  deer-hide,  its  mattress  a 
homespun  tick  filled  with  feathers. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  were  two  Spanish-leather 
chairs  and  a  table  upon  which  a  candle  guttered  in  a 
heavy  bronze  candlestick. 

Griselda  sighed  as  her  maid  came  in  to  attend  her. 
This  was  all  very  comfortable,  far  more  so  than  the  decay- 
ing manor  of  her  father;  and  for  all  his  roughness,  she 
was  beginning  to  realize,  John  of  Hollenfels  was  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man. 

So  they  were  married  the  next  day  in  the  little  chapel 

188 


HOLLENFELS 

on  the  fourth  floor.  John  of  Hollenfels  did  not  believe 
in  long  engagements  and  his  affianced  bride  had  long 
since  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable.  There  was  a 
grand  celebration  that  lasted  two  days. 

Love  blessed  their  union,  a  love  no  less  enduring 
because  of  somewhat  tardy  development.  Love  is  a  very 
peculiar  thing. 

Griselda,  for  all  that  she  was  a  great  lady,  found 
plenty  to  keep  her  from  boredom  in  the  affairs  of  the  serfs 
whose  stone  cottages  clustered  in  the  sun-baked  street 
before  the  castle  gate.  It  is  somehow  a  very  remarkable 
fact  about  serfdom  that  although  feudalism  brought  caste 
to  the  highest  development  that  it  has  known  in  Europe, 
it  brought  less  snobbery.  A  serf  might  not  amount  to 
much  and  no  lord  of  a  castle  would  have  worried  about 
stringing  one  to  the  ramparts,  but  pending  some  such 
violent  finish  the  retainer  seems  to  have  been  fairly 
treated. 

In  Griselda's  case,  as  in  that  of  many  another  of  her 
time,  had  she  insisted  upon  consorting  only  with  her  own 
class  she  would  have  passed  most  of  her  days  in  silent 
meditation  for  distances  between  the  homes  of  the  aris- 
tocracy were  tedious  if  not  long.  And  the  babies  that 
played  in  the  dust  outside  the  castle  gate  were  very 
human.  In  a  few  weeks  every  mother  in  the  community 
looked  upon  Griselda  as  an  angel  and  Griselda  could 
have  given  a  detailed  inventory  of  the  furniture  in  any 

189 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

given  cottage.    The  Lady  of  Hollenfels  was  very  happy. 

Then  one  day  a  messenger  rode  to  the  gate, — a  lean 
sunburned  man  in  light  armor  whose  horse  was  foam- 
flecked  and  nearly  spent.  Within  an  hour  the  trumpets 
were  sounding  assembly.  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  was  rid- 
ing to  a  crusade  and  the  clans  of  chivalry  were  gathering. 

The  women  wept  about  it  as  women  have  always  wept 
when  the  sword  is  girded.  The  men  swung  to  horse  with- 
out hesitation.  The  business  of  the  age  was  war.  Every- 
thing else  must  be  considered  subordinate  to  it.  Agricul- 
ture was  no  calling  for  a  broad-backed,  low-browed  horse- 
man who  had  heard  the  clang  of  battle-ax  and  shield. 
Home  life  was  a  passing  dissipation  to  one  used  to  the 
rough  routine  of  the  campaign ;  and,  if  the  truth  be  told, 
family  ties  represented  the  period's  strongest  discipline; 
there  was  no  discipline  in  the  field. 

The  Graf  of  Hollenfels  smoothed  Griselda's  beautiful 
hair  as  he  kissed  her  in  parting.  With  his  own  hands  he 
locked  about  her  waist  the  iron  "belt  of  fidelity." 

Pleasant  garments  were  these  belts  of  fidelity.  They 
may  be  seen  in  nearly  any  museum  to-day,  a  curious  com- 
mentary upon  the  skeptical  attitude  of  the  medieval 
warrior  toward  the  virtue  of  his  wife.  They  weighed 
almost  as  much  as  a  well-made  coat  of  chain-mail  and 
had  less  resiliency  than  a  modern  strait-jacket.  The 
woman  who  wore  one  carried  her  own  prison. 

But  Griselda  made  no  objection  to  this  obnoxious  iron 

IQO 


HOLLENFELS 

zone,  probably  because  she  did  not  know  that  it  was 
obnoxious.  She  knew  that  other  wives  wore  such  belts 
and  she  was  too  much  concerned  over  the  count's  depar- 
ture to  worry  about  personal  discomfort  still  in  the  fu- 
ture. 

"I  shall  be  true  to  you  always,"  she  vowed. 

The  count  kissed  her  passionately. 

"Remember  the  belt,"  he  warned.  "If  you  take  it  off, 
my  curse  be  on  you,  though  I  love  you  more  than  life 
itself." 

"I  shall  wear  it  in  fond  remembrance  of  you,"  she 
declared.  Hollenfels  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  see  any 
humor  in  that.  All  atremble  he  rushed  down  the  winding 
stairs  and  mounted  his  black  steed.  The  "glimmering, 
glittering  cavalcade"  clattered  out  over  the  pontlevis  and 
down  the  stony  trail.  The  count's  last  sight  of  the  castle 
was  hallowed  by  the  vision  of  Griselda  on  the  ramparts, 
throwing  kisses  to  him  by  way  of  farewell. 

A  pretty  picture  this,  albeit  sad.  But  Griselda  could 
see  none  of  its  prettiness  and  she  soon  forgot  her  sorrow. 
The  plague  of  the  belt  was  on  her.  Sleeping  or  waking 
it  bore  down  upon  her  hips,  chafed  her  flesh,  and  tortured 
her  beyond  endurance.  There  was  no  relief  from  it. 
The  horrible  iron  harness  was  locked  in  place  and  her 
crusading  husband  carried  the  key. 

In  vain  her  waiting-women  attempted  to  console  her. 

"It  is  a  device  from  hell,"  she  declared.     "It  is  stiffer 

191 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

than  the  whalebone  corsets  of  Germany,  heavier  than  a 
bronze  breastplate,  and  sharp  as  a  sword." 

"But,  my  lady,"  her  maid  reminded  her,  "it  is  the 
custom."  Whereupon — we  hate  to  say  it,  but  legend 
holds  it  the  truth — the  fair  Griselda,  angel  of  the  village, 
became  angry. 

"Why  is  it  the  custom'?"  she  demanded.  "Always  I 
have  been  true  to  my  husband  in  thought,  word,  and 
deed.  Always  I  have  been  a  good  woman.  Why  should 
I  wear  this  token  when  he  wears  none?  Is  his  chastity 
less  to  be  questioned  than  mine?" 

And  that  was  a  point  well  taken.  It  has  been  woman's 
just  plaint  for  many  an  age. 

The  serving-woman  remained  silent  and  Griselda, 
groaning  under  the  weight  of  the  iron  belt,  pursued  her 
painful  course  to  her  own  chamber. 

Two  days  later  she  summoned  an  aged  armorer  whose 
rheumatism  had  prevented  his  going  to  the  wars. 

"I  want  this  belt  taken  off,"  she  told  him. 

He  gazed  at  her  in  amazement. 

"But,  my  lady,"  he  protested,  "it  is  bad  luck  and  my 
life  should  be  forfeit.  I  pray  you  do  not  think  of  such  a 
thing." 

"My  life  will  be  forfeit  if  I  leave  it  on,"  she  countered 
petulantly.  "As  for  the  bad  luck,  it  would  be  a  change 
for  the  better." 

In  the  end  the  old  man  gave  in.    He  brought  a  file  and 

192 


ALTAR — HOLLENFELS    CHAPEL 

The  jutting  stones  above  the  arch  supported  the  top  floor  of  the  castle,  the  bed  chambers  of 

the  graf  and  his  family 


SALLE    DES    CHE\AL1KRS 

This  was  the  main  room  of  the  castle — still  a  beautiful  chamber  with  high  vaulted  ceiling 
and  carved  masonry,  despite  the  marks  of  decay  that  the  centuries  have  set  upon  it 

HOLLENFELS 


HOLLENFELS 

presently  the  belt  of  fidelity  fell  on  the  flags  at  her  feet. 
Her  face  shone  with  the  beatific  ecstasy  of  one  who  has 
come  through  insufferable  torments  into  an  undreamed-of 
repose.    The  old  man  departed,  shaking  his  head. 

"I  fear  no  good  will  come  of  it,"  he  declared.  But 
Griselda  did  not  hear  him. 

In  Hollenfels  to-day  one  can  see  a  medieval  novelty 
in  the  way  of  plumbing.  On  each  side  of  the  windows  in 
the  hall  of  the  knights  and  similarly  placed  on  the  upper 
floors  are  little  closets,  one  jutting  out  over  the  other  like 
the  side  of  an  inverted  pyramid.  These  contain  stone 
sinks  with  openings  directly  over  the  precipice.  They 
were  wash-rooms  that  never  were  to  know  running  water, 
it  is  true,  but  still  something  of  a  concession  to  cleanli- 
ness and  sanitation  in  a  period  when  castle-dwellers  had 
little  time  to  think  of  such  things.  In  one  of  these  little 
rooms  opening  out  of  her  own  chamber  Griselda  found  a 
convenient  hiding-place  for  the  accursed  belt.  It  was  a 
place  her  women  would  have  no  occasion  to  enter. 

Griselda  hung  the  belt  on  a  hook  above  the  sink  and 
promptly  forgot  about  it.  Her  days  were  very  full,  what 
with  visits  to  Schoenfels  and  Ansembourg  and  Mersch 
and  the  spinning  and  weaving  of  wool  and  linen.  House- 
hold arts  were  fashionable  then.  There  was  no  other 
form  of  amusement. 

So  autumn  burned  into  winter  and  the  snows  of  the 
hills  washed  down  into  the  valley  and  then  sprouted  the 

193 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

dog  roses  of  a  new  spring.  Still  the  warriors  were  ham- 
mering at  the  gates  of  Islam.  And  still  the  curse  that  the 
departing  husband  had  made  contingent  upon  the  wear- 
ing of  the  iron  belt  was  held  in  abeyance.  The  harness 
still  swung  from  its  peg  over  the  sink  in  the  tower  room. 
Griselda,  full  of  the  joy  of  living,  had  forgotten  the 
shadow  that  hung  over  her,  just  as  she  had  forgotten  the 
emblem  of  doubt  that  caused  it. 

One  day,  alone,  she  left  the  castle  gates  and  wandered 
down  the  trail  toward  the  valley,  picking  the  wild  flowers 
that  grew  in  the  rocks  of  the  great  precipice.  A  scarlet 
rose  attracted  her, — the  favorite  flower  of  that  husband 
who  might  even  now  be  lying  dead  upon  a  sun-bleached 
slope  in  Palestine. 

She  felt  the  surge  of  love  and  tender  memory  and 
stooped  to  pick  it. 

In  the  castle  above,  one  of  the  tirewomen  had  entered 
the  Grdfins  chamber.  A  needle  was  missing  and  she 
looked  for  it  everywhere,  even  in  the  little  closet  near 
the  window.  A  sudden  draft  slammed  the  door  and  she 
turned  to  go.  But  the  slamming  had  jarred  the  iron  belt 
from  its  hook. 

It  fell  to  the  sink  and  then  through  the  waste-hole  at 
the  end, — a  deadly  missile  that  dropped  straight  and 
true. 

Griselda  was  found  at  the  base  of  the  castle  steeps,  a 
streak  of  red  in  her  flaxen  hair  where  the  weight  of  the 

194 


HOLLENFELS 

curse  had  fallen.  She  had  died  without  knowing  what 
had  happened  to  her. 

To  this  day  the  wild  roses  grow  on  the  spot  where  she 
fell. 

*'Do  you  believe  that  story?"  I  asked  the  guide. 

He  took  his  feathered  fedora  from  his  brown  hair  and 
smiled  as  he  scratched  his  head. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  he  declared.  "Few  people  do.  We 
have  seen  these  belts  and  we  know  that  the  ladies  of  the 
castles  were  forced  to  wear  them.  But  they  were  cruel 
and  I  do  not  think  that  the  bon  Dieu  would  allow  a 
jealous  husband's  curse  to  destroy  a  wife  guilty  only  of 
so  excusable  a  disobedience. 

"Now,  as  for  the  bombardment  of  the  castle  by  the 
French  cannon.  Monsieur,  that  is  a  thing  believable  and 
logical. 

"Many  times  the  bombardment  has  been  heard  and 
will  \)t  heard  until  the  castle  falls  down." 

The  sun  was  shining  through  the  bare  rafters  of  the 
departed  roof  and  striking  through  the  narrow  windows 
of  Griselda's  room.  The  varied  tragedies  of  Hollenfels 
seemed  very  real  and  recent. 


19^ 


CHAPTER  XII 
MARIENTHAL 


The  Flying  Horseman 

Safe  in  the  hallowed  quiets  of  the  past. 

— Lowell. 


CHAPTER  XII 


MARIENTHAL 


DOWN  from  Hollenfels  the  road  winds  around 
a  rocky  promontory  into  Marienthal,  vale  of 
eternal  peace.  A  narrow  plane  of  lush  meadow 
is  Marienthal,  flanked  by  gently  sloping  wooded  hills, — a 
harbor  of  rest  beyond  a  grim  coast  of  battlemented  stone. 

Through  the  grasses  meanders  the  Eisch,  a  placid 
stream  with  barely  a  ripple  on  its  surface,  quite  different 
in  disposition  from  its  brother  the  Mamer,  which  flows 
parallel  to  it  in  its  journey  to  join  the  Alzette.  And  by 
the  river  bank,  a  vista  of  red  roofs,  white  walls,  vines, 
and  flowers,  nestles  the  Marienthal  abbey,  home  of  the 
White  Fathers  of  Africa. 

There  is  the  murmur  of  insects  in  the  air,  the  drowsy 
plaint  of  the  humming-bird,  a  low  vague  chant  from  the 
chapel.  There  is  age  here  as  obviously  as  in  the  ruins  of 
Ansembourg  and  Hollenfels,  but  it  is  of  a  different 
variety.  It  is  the  antiquity  of  yellowing  ivory  and 
lavender-scented  laces,  where  that  of  the  castles  is  the 
antiquity  of  rusting  iron  and  disintegrating  bones.  Hol- 
lenfels is  the  typification  of  swashbuckling  history 
checked  in  the  midst  of  an  interesting  and  sensational 

199 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

chapter.  Marienthal  is  a  stately  present  immersed  in  the 
rose  perfumes  of  a  continuing  past. 

The  grandeur  of  Marienthal  is  gone.  The  original 
convent,  established  by  the  Princess  Ermesinde, — who 
seems  to  have  founded  nearly  all  the  religious  houses  in 
the  duchy, — was  burned  by  the  French  revolutionaries. 

The  buildings  that  remain  are  not  remarkable  for  their 
architecture,  intrinsic  value,  or  mode  of  construction. 
But  the  beauty  of  Mary's  Vale,  the  calm,  intangible  love- 
liness of  it,  is  a  thing  apart  from  piles  of  mortar  and  stone. 
It  will  linger  forever. 

There  are  never  gray  days  in  this  valley.  In  the  sun- 
light it  is  a  scintillant  gem.  In  the  rain  it  is  a  blend  of 
green  and  blue  and  white,  and  luminous  as  if  through 
some  quality  of  its  own. 

The  priory  of  Marienthal  is  a  self-contained  village  set 
in  a  walled  park  one  side  of  which  is  bounded  by  slowly 
disintegrating  ruins.  The  superior  judges  them  to  have 
been  a  part  of  Ermesinde's  convent.  Peasants  of  the 
neighborhood  declare  them  to  be  another  of  Julius 
Caesar's  innumerable  relics,  part  of  a  Roman  camp.  Per- 
haps both  are  right,  for  in  these  parts  the  cross  was  the 
eagle's  natural  successor. 

I  stopped  at  a  gate  reminiscent  of  the  old  California 
missions  and  pulled  the  bell-cord.  Through  the  iron  bars 
could  be  glimpsed  the  main  street  of  the  abbey,  a  group 
of  white  stone  buildings  immaculately  clean,  with  a  well- 

200 


MARIENTHAL 

kept  garden  beyond,  carefully  cut  hedges,  trimmed  pine 
trees  in  orderly  rows  with  benches  in  their  inviting  shade. 

Presently  came  a  figure  that  seemed  to  be  an  integral 
part  of  the  picture, — a  sun-browned,  black-bearded  priest 
in  a  white  cassock  and  scarlet  fez.  The  peculiarity  of 
such  a  costume  on  a  churchman  anywhere  else  in  Europe 
might  have  seemed  surprising.  But  not  at  Marienthal. 
In  such  a  spot  nothing  could  be  commonplace  and  nothing 
could  be  startling. 

He  smilingly  opened  the  gates  and  voiced  a  welcome 
in  high  French,  low  German,  and  middle  English. 

"You  would  see  Marienthal?"  he  inquired.  "I  am 
glad.  We  seldom  see  visitors  here  and  new  faces  gladden 
the  day." 

He  babbled  cheerfully  of  America,  the  war,  and  the 
chaos  that  had  come  from  the  remaking  of  the  world.  He 
seemed  singularly  well  informed  for  the  occupant  of  an 
isolated  abbey  in  a  dreamy  valley. 

"I  have  been  in  Africa,"  he  said  by  way  of  explanation. 
"That  is  where  the  priests  of  my  order  have  their  work. 
We  do  not  see  many  religious  there, — French  soldiers, 
many  of  them,  and  traders  and  natives.  It  is  a  very  busy 
and  interesting  life.  When  we  get  to  the  rectory  I  shall 
show  you  some  of  the  relics  of  our  work  in  Africa." 

He  told  of  the  eventful  history  of  the  Marienthal 
priory  from  the  date  of  its  founding  by  Ermesinde  as  a 
convent  for  the  daughters  of  the  county's  nobility, — how 

201 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Yolande  the  Beautiful,  of  Vianden,  had  fled  there  for 
refuge  when  her  parents  would  have  exercised  their 
ancient  prerogative  of  picking  her  husband;  how  Joseph 
II  had  suppressed  it ;  how  the  regicides  of  the  Terror  had 
put  it  to  the  torch. 

Some  of  the  most  noble  names  of  Europe  must  have 
been  on  its  rolls  in  those  early  days,  for  it  was  fashion- 
able. To  be  admitted  to  Marienthal  was  to  be  marked 
as  a  woman  of  blood  with  a  noble  lineage  traceable  back 
for  at  least  fourteen  generations.  To  be  rejected  by 
Alarienthal  was  to  take  back  into  the  world  an  impaired 
social  standing. 

Who  were  the  prioresses  of  the  convent  at  the  time  of 
its  importance  is  not  mentioned  in  profane  history.  But 
whoever  they  were,  they  were  worthy  of  more  than  pass- 
ing comment.  The  preservation  of  discipline  in  a  house 
where  rank  and  worldly  honors  were  considered  pre- 
requisite to  a  vocation  must  have  required  a  keen  intelli- 
gence and  an  iron  hand. 

The  White  Fathers  of  Africa  have  come  into  possession 
of  the  place  only  recently,  but  the  convent  has  been 
shaped  to  fit  their  individuality  so  that  it  is  hard  to 
imagine  that  it  ever  belonged  to  any  one  else.  A  red- 
fezzed  priest  reads  his  breviary  on  a  vine-covered  balcony 
overlooking  the  brook.  Two  ugly  dogs  rove  under  the 
trees.  A  number  of  old  men  who  do  not  wear  the  garb  of 
the   order  are   at   work  in   the   gardens   or   unloading 

202 


MARIENTHAL 

building-materials  at  a  flour-mill  west  of  the  gate.  This 
is  a  bachelor's  paradise.    Women  have  no  place  in  it. 

The  dormitories  of  the  priests  and  lay  brothers  flank 
the  little  chapel,  fronting  upon  a  formal  terrace  ablaze 
with  flowers.  Weather-beaten  little  saints — prominent 
among  them  St.  Hubert  of  the  Ardennes — gaze  down, 
with  a  calmness  that  centuries  have  not  altered,  from 
carven  niches  about  the  door. 

The  interior  of  the  church  is  a  bijou  of  German  mural 
decoration  with  royal  blue  the  predominating  color.  It 
has  none  of  the  clashing  tints  that  might  be  expected  in  a 
place  where  a  Munich  artist  has  been  allowed  to  wield 
his  impressionistic  brush.  The  blue  of  the  predominating 
tone  is  strengthened  by  the  blue  of  the  windows  fading 
into  blackness  where  Gothic  arches  of  fumed  oak  cross  in 
the  high  vaulted  ceiling.  Little  iron  panels  here  and 
there  mark  the  spots  where  the  daughters  of  the  men  who 
remodeled  world  history  with  mace  and  pike  lie  in  their 
last  sleep.  Here  if  any  place  in  the  world  they  can  find 
peace. 

Leave  the  chapel  by  a  narrow  passageway  to  a 
reception-room  in  the  rectory  and  step  into  Timbuktu. 

Marienthal  is  the  last  place  on  earth  where  one  would 
expect  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  Africa.  But  it  boasts 
one  of  the  finest  collections  of  African  war  materials  and 
household  implements  in  Europe.  Cannibals'  cooking- 
utensils,    nose-rings,    battle-clubs,    savages'    hair    orna- 

203 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ments,  clam-shell  money, — a  wealth  of  oddities  from  a 
land  that  American  colloquialism  readily  concedes  to  be 
the  hinterland  of  Nowhere,  makes  this  room  alone  worth 
a  visit  to  Mary's  Vale.  The  White  Father  is  proud  of 
the  collection  and  explains  in  detail  the  personal  history 
of  each  ebon-skinned  man-eater  who  contributed  to  it. 
He  is  less  verbose  concerning  the  bleaching  bones  of 
White  Fathers  who  lie  in  the  hot  shadows  of  the  ancient 
clay  walls  of  Timbuktu.  They  were  soldiers,  he  says. 
And  they  died  on  their  battle-field. 

The  White  Father  led  me  out  into  the  garden  and  we 
sat  for  a  while  on  one  of  the  benches  under  the  toy-shop 
pines.  Gossamer  hung  in  the  air — ''threads  from  the  veil 
of  the  Virgin,"  he  called  them — and  a  light,  motionless 
mist  that  banked  against  the  grove  above  which  could  be 
seen  the  towers  of  the  new  Ansembourg. 

He  pointed  to  the  cliffs  that  rose  sheer  some  two  hun- 
dred feet  at  the  rear  of  the  priory  gardens. 

"There  is  a  pretty  legend  about  that  cliff.  Monsieur," 
he  said. 

'In  one  of  the  many  wars  that  have  swept  this  country, 
much  of  the  fighting  centered  about  Mersch.  The  holy 
women  of  the  convent  here  spent  day  and  night  in  prayer 
while  a  few  kilometers  away  towns  were  ablaze  and  men 
were  hacking  at  one  another  in  hatred.  I  think  that  it 
must  have  been  during  one  of  the  Dutch  invasions,  for 

204 


MARIENTHAL 

the  battle  line  seems  to  have  run  east  and  west,  one  army 
in  the  North,  another  in  the  South. 

"There  were  many  French  with  the  army  of  the  South, 
— chevaliers  related  to  the  seigneurs  of  Luxemburg  and 
the  like. 

"One  day  the  army  of  the  North  made  a  flanking  move- 
ment and  there  was  a  crisis.  A  party  of  Frenchmen,  said 
to  have  been  among  the  best  horsemen  in  Europe,  were 
cut  off  from  their  friends  and  driven  upon  that  pla- 
teau. They  fought  desperately  but  were  crushed  by 
numbers.  One  by  one  they  were  killed,  leaving  a  sorry 
trail  across  the  fertile  fields  up  there.  By  the  time  the 
fighting  reached  the  edge  of  the  cliffs  only  one  of  the 
Frenchmen  was  left. 

"He  must  have  been  brave.  Monsieur.  Many  of  the 
good  nuns  who  were  here  then  saw  him  turn  about,  set 
his  face  to  the  enemy,  and  kill  the  leader  of  the  pursuing 
squadron.  Hand  to  hand,  cut  and  slash,  he  gave  battle 
to  every  one  who  approached  him.  Then  suddenly  his 
blade  broke  across  the  metal  casque  of  one  of  his 
antagonists. 

"That  should  have  finished  him.  But  he  was  a  man 
of  wit  as  well  as  bravery.  Like  a  lightning  flash  he  swung 
his  horse  about  and  turned  toward  the  cliff  again.  His 
foes  stopped  a  moment,  amazed  at  his  audacity.  Before 
they  could  recover,  he  had  gathered  his  horse.  In  a  second 
he  had  shot  into  the  air  far  out  over  the  brink. 

205 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"The  good  nuns  closed  their  eyes,  fearful  of  seeing  him 
crushed  to  death  on  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice. 
They  opened  them  again  to  breathe  a  prayer  to  God. 

"He  was  not  killed,  Monsieur.  He  was  not  hurt. 
Horse  and  man  landed  together  in  the  green  meadow 
without  a  scratch." 

"He  was  a  brave  man,"  I  commented. 

"He  was  a  man  favored  by  God,"  returned  the  priest, 
gravely.  "The  country  people  hereabouts  say  that  he 
weighed  together  with  his  horse  only  hve  ounces.  They 
judge  from  the  tradition  that  the  iron  shoes  of  his  mount 
barely  made  an  impression  in  the  meadow." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it*?" 

"Je  ne  sais  pas.  A  miracle,  perhaps.  After  all, 
Monsieur,  the  bon  Dieu  who  hangs  the  stars  in  their 
heavens  would  have  found  little  task  in  aiding  a  horse 
and  rider  down  from  the  heights  of  Marienthal.  It  is 
very  remarkable  but  not  hard  to  believe." 

And,  somehow,  I  felt  that  he  was  right.  It  is  not  hard 
to  believe  fairy  tales  in  fairy-land. 

The  same  legend  with  surprising  variations  is  found 
in  other  parts  of  the  Mersch  district. 

Near  Schoenfels  is  a  chapel  said  to  have  been  erected 
by  a  Grdfin  in  honor  of  the  Guardian  Angel  as  a  thank- 
offering  for  the  rescue  of  her  little  son  from  a  violent 
death. 

The  boy  and  his  mother  are  said  to  have  been  gathermg 

206 


MARIENTHAL 

wild  flowers  when  they  became  separated.  The  boy  wan- 
dered to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  fell  over. 

His  distracted  mother  found  him  seated  among  the 
rocks  at  the  base  of  the  steep  descent,  unhurt. 

"A  man  in  white  robes  caught  me  and  carried  me 
down,"  was  his  explanation. 

The  connection  between  the  Flying  Horseman  and  the 
legend  of  the  Grafin's  son  is  not  difficult  to  see. 

The  priest  sank  into  a  reverie  and  so  did  I.  One  does 
not  wish  to  leave  Marienthal,  especially  after  one  has 
seen  the  blight  of  war  upon  the  country-side  roundabout. 

I  have  seen  the  valley  white  with  snow  in  winter, 
yellow-green  with  new  foliage  in  spring,  and  red  with 
roses,  poppies,  and  hollyhocks  in  summer.  But  in  one 
respect  it  remained  the  same, — calm  as  the  summer  sea, 
peaceful  as  paradise. 


207 


CHAPTER  XIII 
SCHOENFELS 


The  Little  People 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

— Vaughan. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SCHOENFELS 

THE  castle  at  Schoenfels  is  a  type  distinct  from 
the  other  castles  in  the  neighborhood.  It  is 
built  in  the  valley  within  the  looping  of  the 
tiny  Mamer, — a  great  tower  that  relied  upon  the  mighti- 
ness of  its  own  walls  and  garrison  to  resist  attacks. 

The  rocks  on  each  side  of  the  valley  would  seem  to 
have  offered  innumerable  sites  better  adapted  to  castle- 
building  than  the  open  marsh  on  the  river  bank.  But  the 
early  knights  of  Schindels,  as  the  place  is  called  in  the 
local  vernacular,  apparently  knew  what  they  were  about. 
The  impregnable  fortresses  that  seem  never  to  have  been 
able  to  keep  an  enemy  out  or  turn  the  tide  of  a  battle, 
are  masses  of  disintegrating  rock  inhabited  only  by  wild 
animals.  Schoenfels,  embellished  by  a  number  of  modern 
improvements,  including  a  cement  covering  and  slate 
roof,  thrusts  its  tower  into  the  sky  and  houses  a  Dutch 
baron  in  regal  style.  It  has  more  of  the  picture-book 
appearance  than  any  of  the  other  ancient  chateaux, 
probably  because  it  is  intact  and  tenanted. 

Four  turrets  crown  its  central  donjon,  increasing  the 
militaristic  impression  of  its  slim  windows.  But  the 
runways  where  once  were  mobilized  the  wielders  of  tar- 

211 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

pot  and  lead-ladle  have  been  made  over  into  a  simple 
coping,  and  a  weathercock  arrow  at  the  apex  is  the  castle's 
last  reminder  of  the  vanished  archers  who  once  upheld 
its  glory. 

Schoenfels  is  east  of  Marienthal,  immediately  across 
the  plateau  from  which  the  Flying  Horseman  made  his 
famous  leap.  It  is  separated  from  the  valley  of  the 
Alzette  by  still  another  ridge  which  narrows  to  a  point 
as  the  Eisch,  Alzette,  and  Mamer  flow  northward  to 
merge  at  Mersch. 

The  soft  beauty  of  Marienthal  is  absent  here, — per- 
haps because  of  the  grim  shadows  of  the  castle,  perhaps 
because  of  the  turbulence  of  the  surrounding  scenery. 
But  it  is  not  without  its  potent  spell.  If  Marienthal  is 
the  natural  abode  of  fairies,  this  must  be  the  haunt  of 
elves  and  gnomes. 

In  novelty  of  legend  it  is  the  most  noteworthy  spot  in 
all  the  grand  duchy. 

Above  the  castle,  accessible  by  a  difficult  trail,  is  an 
opening  in  the  Beautiful  Rocks, — the  entrance  to  a  mys- 
terious cavern.  Here  dwelt  in  the  ancient  days  the  Little 
People.  Of  their  early  history  little  or  nothing  is  known. 
It  is  generally  believed  that  they  were  the  predecessors 
of  the  Celts  in  the  Ardennes,  cavemen  who  had  degener- 
ated in  stature  as  they  had  improved  in  morals  in  com- 
parison with  their  club-wielding  ancestors. 

Part  of  this  series  of  grottoes  seems  to  be  natural,  but 

212 


SCHOENFELS 

the  eternal  rock  bears  chisel-marks  that  support  the  theory 
that  a  race  of  dwarfed  artisans  once  made  their  home 
there. 

A  Belgian  electrician,  who  had  fled  into  Luxemburg 
when  the  Germans  were  bombarding  Liege,  was  my  guide 
to  the  cavern. 

He  had  an  outsider's  natural  interest  in  a  local  wonder 
and  had  a  fund  of  information  gained  from  the  natives 
in  five  years  of  questioning. 

*'These  Little  People  are  spoken  of  in  legends  all  over 
Europe,"  he  said.  "There  are  traces  of  them  along  the 
Meuse,  near  Dinant  and  Liege.  But  this  is  the  first  real 
proof  of  their  existence  that  I  have  ever  seen." 

He  moistened  his  finger  and  held  it  at  the  mouth  of  the 
cavern. 

"There  is  a  good  draft,  Monsieur,"  he  observed.  ''And 
where  there  is  a  draft  there  is  not  likely  to  be  any  carbon 
monoxid.  But  the  caves  are  low  and  narrow.  Be 
careful." 

He  led  the  way  on  his  hands  and  knees  through  pas- 
sages where  the  candle-flame  lighted  niches  in  the  walls 
and  raised  places  still  blackened  with  the  smoke  of 
ancient  fires.  The  tunnels  crossed  and  recrossed  dizzily 
and  there  came  wider  rooms  that  probably  had  seen  serv- 
ice as  community  centers. 

In  spots  where  the  springs  had  dripped  through  the 
stone  roofs  there  were  glistening  stalactite  formations. 

213 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

But  these  were  very  small  and  not  nearly  so  delicately 
formed  as  those  of  the  natural  caves  of  the  Jura  and  the 
Pyrenees. 

Except  as  a  basis  for  ethnological  study  the  caverns 
were  hardly  worth  the  trouble  entailed  in  the  explora- 
tion. Both  of  us  emerged  with  bruised  knees  and  torn 
clothes,  no  whit  the  wiser  as  to  how  these  prehistoric 
gnomes  had  lived  or  died. 

"What  did  these  dwarfs  do?"  I  inquired  when  we  had 
come  back  into  the  sunlight  again.  "How  did  they  make 
a  living*?" 

"Hunted  and  fished,  I  suppose,"  the  electrician  an- 
swered. "That  was  what  all  the  savages  in  this  part  of 
the  country  did.  These  people  could  not  have  been 
warriors.    They  were  too  small. 

"There  is  much  legend  about  them  but  almost  no  fact. 
The  people  of  Schindels  say  that  they  were  a  very  gener- 
ous, kind-hearted  race  and  that  they  were  endowed  with 
supernatural  powers.  They  are  always  coming  back  from 
the  dead  to  help  poor  people. 

"One  old  woman  of  Schindels  told  me  how  two  of  the 
little  men  had  helped  her  to  carry  her  faggots  down  from 
the  forest.  Another  one  told  me  of  the  gnome  that  used 
to  sit  at  her  grandmother's  fireplace. 

"But  the  people  who  live  higher  on  the  slopes  are  not 
so  well  disposed  toward  them.  They  say  that  the  Little 
People  were  like  the  gnomes  of  the  Schwarzwald,  lost 

214 


SCHOENFELS 

souls  in  misshapen  bodies,  living  for  evil  and  cursing  at 
good.  They  have  told  me  that  the  Little  People  warmed 
themselves  in  the  rocks  about  fires  that  burned  with  a 
blue  light,  and  the  blue  light  is  a  signal  of  trouble.  The 
lights  were  seen  in  the  summer  of  1914  and  a  short  time 
afterward  the  Prussians  were  pouring  through  here  into 
Belgium  and  France.  They  burned  for  a  whole  week  as 
the  final  blasts  were  being  discharged  in  the  destruction 
of  the  great  fortress  at  Luxemburg  city.  I  prefer,  some- 
how, to  think  of  the  dwarfs  as  harbingers  of  evil.  It  fits 
in  better  with  the  legends  of  the  other  districts." 

What  became  of  the  dwarfs — whether  they  died  off  in 
a  pestilence  or  were  exterminated  by  the  sweep  of  a 
hardier  tribe  from  Asia — cannot  be  determined.  Some 
fossilized  bones  of  their  species  have  been  dug  up  in  the 
western  Ardennes  and  some  homely  personal  utensils 
that  may  have  been  theirs  may  be  seen  at  the  Luxemburg 
museum.  But  there  is  no  record  of  their  passing.  They 
were  a  people  of  mystery  and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
the  puzzle  of  their  existence  lived  on  while  they  them- 
selves went  back  to  the  soil  whence  they  had  sprung. 

That  they  once  existed  would  seem  evident  from  the 
vast  fund  of  folk-lore  concerning  them,  even  without  the 
supporting  testimony  of  their  abandoned  caves.  Every 
nation  of  Europe  has  its  stories  of  the  Little  People.  In 
Germany  they  are  the  gnomes  of  the  Black  Forest, — some 
of  them  pious  creatures,  others  of  them  past  masters  of 

215 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  black  art,  lieutenants  of  the  devil,  despoilers  of  the 
cradle,  harbingers  of  bad  luck.  In  France  they  are  made 
to  people  the  Jura  and  the  Pyrenees,  a  race  similar  in 
every  respect.  In  Ireland  their  equivalent  is  found  in 
the  Good  People,  the  souls  of  the  damned  compelled  to 
wander  about  the  Green  Isle,  plotting  mischief  until  the 
place  set  apart  for  them  in  hell  is  made  ready. 

That  the  people  of  Schindels  have  clothed  them  with 
a  wholly  gratuitous  gentleness  of  character  is  due  rather 
to  the  trustfulness  of  the  people  than  to  any  precedence 
in  tradition.  Whoever  they  were  and  whatever  they  did, 
the  memory  of  them  will  be  evil  so  long  as  the  country 
folk  continue  to  talk  of  them. 

In  Gosseldange,  a  village  on  the  Alzette  across  the 
divide  from  Schoenfels,  the  Little  People  came  back 
again  a  year  ago  in  a  new  incarnation. 

Women  huddled  about  their  fireplaces  and  men 
scoured  rusty  firearms  and  diffidently  set  themselves 
against  a  new  menace. 

Up  in  the  forests  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  an  evil  was 
afoot, — an  intangible,  indescribable  thing  that  made  the 
woods  a  dangerous  mystery  by  day  and  an  echoing  terror 
by  night.  A  wild  man,  some  called  it;  an  ogre,  declared 
others ;  a  ghost  of  one  of  the  Little  People,  perhaps,  or  an 
agent  of  the  devil. 

For  five  dreadful  days  it  howled  in  the  woods  and 
children  were  afraid  to  cross  their  door-steps  after  night- 

216 


SCHOENFELS 

fall.     Then  the  burghers,  despite  certain  superstitious 
misgivings,  organized  a  posse  and  scoured  the  woods. 

They  had  no  success. 

The  Thing  laughed  at  them  as  they  beat  through  the 
brush,  flitted  to  the  tree-tops  when  they  thought  they 
had  cornered  it,  howled  derisively  behind  them  when 
crackling  twigs  had  led  them  to  believe  it  in  front.  For 
the  greater  part  of  one  night  they  chased  it  back  and  forth 
through  the  patches  of  beech  and  oak  and  pine.  Then 
— worn  out,  disheartened,  mystified,  and  a  bit  afraid — 
they  plodded  back  to  the  village,  and  down  the  road  the 
Thing  came  after  them,  jeering  and  howling  like  the 
fiend  that  it  was. 

It  is  too  bad  that  this  tale  must  end  with  an  anticlimax. 
As  a  true,  twentieth-century  sort  of  ghost-story,  it  should 
end  with  the  laying  of  the  ghost.  But  it  does  n't.  Gos- 
seldange  met  over  its  hot  rum  about  the  porcelain  stove  in 
the  cafe  and  evolved  many  new  theories  concerning  the 
nature  and  source  of  the  Terror,  but  never  found  out 
what  it  really  was. 

It  made  the  nights  hideous  for  a  month  or  so,  until  the 
men  who  had  failed  to  rout  it  with  shot-guns  seriously 
considered  asking  the  assistance  of  the  clergy  with  bell, 
book,  and  candle.  Then  one  night  the  spook  departed. 
Since  then  has  been  peace.  Gosseldange  has  ceased  to 
worry  about  it.  A  single  ghost  in  Luxemburg  is  like  a 
fleck  of  foam  on  an  ocean,  a  matter  of  no  consequence. 

217 


CHAPTER  XIV 
MERSCH  AND  PETTINGEN 


Coffins  and  Centurions 

Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave. 

— Byron. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MERSCH  AND  PETTINGEN 

DOWN  from  Schoenfels  for  perhaps  two  kilo- 
meters tumbles  the  little  Mamer,  a  sprightly 
bit  of  white  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  deep 
valley  that  it  carved  for  itself  ages  before  there  were  any 
castles  or  men  to  build  them. 

At  Mersch  it  meets  the  Alzette,  still  singing  of  Luxem- 
burg rock  and  the  captive  Melusine,  and  the  quiet  Esch 
bearing  poppy  petals  from  Marienthal.  They  flow  on 
united  to  merge  presently  with  the  Sure. 

It  would  be  remarkable  if  Mersch,  the  ancient  Marisca, 
with  all  this  wealth  of  waters,  did  not  display  important 
relics  of  its  own.  While  the  valley  is  wide  at  this  point, 
and  the  heights  more  gently  sloping  than  those  to  the 
immediate  north  and  south,  the  confluence  of  the  streams 
made  possible  the  construction  of  a  river  barrier  as  im- 
passable as  the  fosses  chiseled  in  the  rocky  roosts  of  the 
crag  fortresses.  The  barons  of  old  Mersch  seized  upon 
the  natural  advantages  of  their  situation  with  commend- 
able zeal  and  ingenuity. 

It  is  said  that  they  had  the  experience  of  Roman  engi- 
neers for  their  guide,  for  Marisca  was  a  camp  of  some 
size  when  Caesar  led  his  legions  to  the  Rhine.    Pillars  of 

221 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

masonry,  resting  upon  bed-rock  under  the  slime  of  the 
valley,  were  there  for  the  taking  when  the  first  seigneur 
of  Mersch  started  work  upon  his  ugly  stronghold. 

One's  first  glimpse  of  Mersch  from  any  point  of  view 
is  pierced  by  a  Byzantine  church  steeple  suggestive  of 
ancient  treasures,  peculiar  wood-carvings,  and  the  vast- 
ness  of  architecture  that  characterized  the  churches  of  the 
period  which  this  spire  represents.  But  one  comes  closer 
to  discover  that  though  the  spire  is  intact  the  church  is 
gone.  A  public  square  occupies  the  site  where  it  stood, 
and  a  tin-hatted  fire-department  inhabits  what  is  left  of 
the  tower. 

Legend  says  that  it  was  being  torn  down  when  the 
Queen  Mother  of  Holland  interrupted  the  proceedings. 
She  pleaded  that  the  peculiar  belfry  reminded  her  of  the 
spires  in  Russia,  her  native  land,  and  that  she  wished  one 
bit  of  her  beloved  East  to  remain  in  Western  Europe.  So 
it  was  allowed  to  stand. 

The  wreckers  discovered  with  some  surprise  that  the 
foundation  stones  of  the  great  church  were  unlike  any 
that  they  had  ever  seen  in  Luxemburg.  They  were  im- 
mense blocks,  carefully  chiseled  and  sometimes  orna- 
mented with  outlandish  characters.  An  archaeologist  was 
called  to  look  at  them  and  discovered  them  to  be  Frankish 
coffins. 

The  bones  of  the  Franks  who  had  inhabited  them  were 
dust,  as  were  the  warlike  trappings  of  wood  and  leather 

222 


MERSCH  AND  PETTINGEN 

that  made  up  the  principal  part  of  the  funeral  equip- 
ment. A  few  stone  and  metal  weapons  were  found,  how- 
ever, and  the  foundations  of  the  Mersch  basilica  proved 
to  be  one  of  the  most  fertile  sources  of  archaeological 
information  in  the  grand  duchy. 

It  would  appear  logical  that  Mersch  should  be  haunted 
by  the  ghosts  of  the  countless  Franks  whose  cemeteries 
were  ravished  to  provide  a  basement  for  the  old  church. 
But  there  is  where  the  ghosts  failed  to  utilize  a  golden 
opportunity.  In  all  the  folk-lore  of  the  neighborhood 
there  is  no  mention  of  the  Franks.  Local  history  has 
given  them  no  place. 

The  hills  of  the  immediate  vicinity,  however,  abound 
in  antiquities.  There  is  a  miraculous  spring  at  Helper- 
knap.  It  now  comes  under  the  patronage  of  a  Christian 
saint,  but  it  was  flowing  as  it  does  to-day  when  the  horse- 
men of  Caesar  stopped  there  to  water  their  mounts  and 
declared  it  sacred. 

Hundreds  of  persons  come  there  on  the  first  Monday 
in  May  each  year  for  a  noisy  celebration.  They  have 
been  doing  so  for  so  long  a  time  that  every  one  has  for- 
gotten why  the  event  came  to  be  observed  in  such  an 
out-of-the-way  hamlet.  The  very  name  "Helperknap 
Fair"  has  come  to  be  a  term  synonymous  with  antiquity. 

Mersch  itself  is  a  modern  town ;  there  is  the  new  com- 
munity's sameness  about  most  of  its  streets.  It  presents 
little  novelty  of  architecture  or  color  and  claims  distinc- 

223 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

tion  from  any  farm  village  in  Luxemburg  only  in  size 
and  the  crookedness  of  its  alleys.  The  ancient  chateau  is 
still  standing  and  still  habitable.  Its  moat  is  filled  and 
its  walls  crumbling.  Here,  one  would  think,  is  the  touch 
of  the  old  needed  to  lessen  the  crudities  of  the  new.  But 
the  strong  old  building  has  been  painted  an  eye-paining 
red — American  silo  color — and  adds  less  to  the  beauty  of 
the  landscape  than  would  any  square,  squat,  ugly  factory. 

For  the  rest,  Mersch  is  business-like.  One  steps  from 
the  modest  brick  railway  station  into  a  cobbled  square 
from  which  one  road  leads  north  to  zigzag  across  the 
Alzette  to  Beringen,  then  north  again  between  stately 
fir-trees.  A  second  road  is  straight  ahead  past  modest 
stone  cottages  and  iron-railed  mansion  grounds,  peculiar 
little  shops  that  may  be  reached  only  by  mounting  two  or 
three  steps,  cafes  and  restaurants,  bakeries,  livery-stables, 
implement  yards,  and  garages.  There  is  trade  aplenty 
in  Mersch,  for  the  reason  that  most  of  the  villages  of  the 
surrounding  valleys  have  no  stores  of  their  own.  But 
bulk  of  business  has  not  made  the  shops  any  vast  improve- 
ment over  those  of  rural  France. 

As  in  France,  a  librairie  is  usually  a  place  where  it  is 
impossible  to  buy  books.  There  is  no  shop  in  Mersch  in 
which  one  can  buy  books.  Every  one  in  Luxemburg  can 
read.  The  duchy's  educational  system  in  many  respects 
is  a  little  model.  But  literature  apparently  has  a  small 
part  in  the  affairs  of  the  people. 

224 


MERSCH  AND  PETTINGEN 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  classify  the  grocery  stores. 
One  sort  of  shop  sells  canned  goods,  flour,  cheese,  notions, 
novelties,  and  carbide.  Another  sells  dry  goods  with  a 
side  line  of  vegetables.  A  few  doors  farther  down  the 
street  will  be  discovered  a  dingy  shop  where  one  may 
purchase  tobacco  of  an  ersatz  variety,  coffee, — Kath- 
reiner's  Malzkaifee,  usually, — sugar,  salt,  flour,  beans, 
lentils,  potatoes,  sandpaper,  harness,  and  carbide. 

Some  of  the  hardware  stores  sell  furniture,  reaping- 
machine  parts,  bolts,  nuts,  tools,  and  carbide.  Others 
show  a  stock  of  pots  and  pans,  queen's-ware,  cement, 
tools,  cloth,  candy  of  a  strange  variety,  and  carbide. 

Luxemburg's  stores  have  taken  a  leap  from  the  "unit" 
idea  of  German  and  French  shops.  But  in  what  a  strange 
chaos  they  have  landed  I  They  are  not  quite  equal  to  an 
American  cross-roads  general  store  and  are  a  bit  more 
puzzling  than  if  they  distributed  only  one  class  of  prod- 
uce and  advertised  that  class.  The  variety  of  stock  in 
any  class  of  shop  seems  to  depend  entirely  upon  the  whim 
of  the  proprietor.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  an  Ameri- 
can store,  for  example,  dealing  in  sandpaper,  hemp  rope, 
picture-frames,  farm  necessities,  and  hot  waflBes.  But  I 
have  seen  such  a  shop  in  Luxemburg.  The  only  point  of 
agreement  seems  to  be  the  carbide. 

Before  the  war  cheap  German  lanterns  somewhat 
resembling  a  three-inch  shell  with  a  hook  for  a  handle 
were  dumped  in  large  quantities  in  the  duchy.     The 

225 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

farmers  soon  learned  that  despite  their  rather  dangerous 
open  flame  they  gave  a  better  light  than  oil  lanterns  and 
were  more  economical  of  fuel.  So  the  acrid  odor  of  cal- 
cium carbide  overcame  the  perfume  of  the  ever-present 
roses  as  the  national  scent  of  the  duchy. 

There  are  many  excellent  restaurants  in  Mersch,  none 
of  them  very  pretentious  but  generally  modest  in  price 
as  well  as  in  appearance  and  remarkable  for  the  quality 
and  variety  of  their  menus. 

They  are  operated  generally  on  the  French  plan,  with 
the  woman  of  the  household  part  owner,  general  mana- 
ger, and  chef;  and,  as  in  France,  it  must  be  admitted  the 
women  are  born  cooks. 

Railroads  and  electric  lights  have  not  spoiled  the 
charm  of  the  inns.  One  sits  down  to  his  meal  in  a  banjo- 
backed  chair  of  age-blackened  oak,  before  a  table  kept 
white  from  generation  to  generation  with  endless  scrub- 
bing. He  eats  from  blue-edged  chinaware  in  the  center 
of  which  German  comic  pictures  are  etched  in  black.  The 
pretty  daughter  of  the  madame  serves  him,  a  shy-eyed, 
rosy-cheeked  damosel  in  a  starched  gingham  apron,  short 
skirt,  and  wooden-soled  shoes.  And  when  the  meal  is 
finished  she  presents  him  his  check,  the  * 'score"  in  vogue 
in  the  inns  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  time, — a  slate  upon 
which  the  addition  has  been  inscribed  in  white  chalk. 

The  inns  have  plenty  of  room  should  one  choose  to 
stay  the  night.    The  beds,  as  elsewhere,  are  about  a  foot 

226 


MERSCH  AND  PETTINGEN 

too  short,  but  the  soft  mattress  and  the  feather-stuffed 
coverlet  compensate.  For  some  reason  the  coverlets  are 
always  crimson.  Flaming  red  seems  to  be  a  necessary 
factor  in  their  manufacture.  There  is  no  carpet  on  the 
floor ;  carpet  would  hide  it,  Monsieur.  Why  should  one 
have  carpet  when  there  is  an  oaken  floor  in  the  house  and 
a  streak  of  cleanliness  in  the  housewife?  The  wood  is 
smooth  as  ivory  and  as  white,  which  means  that  it  is 
scrubbed  every  day.  Two  rush-bottomed  chairs,  a  wash- 
stand,  and  a  great  armoire  of  black  walnut — an  heirloom 
of  ancient  lineage — complete  the  furnishings. 

Little  enough  of  splendor  even  for  a  country  inn,  but 
a  homely  comfort,  a  contagious  feeling  of  good-will  that 
is  indescribable. 

That  is  what  constitutes  the  attractiveness  of  Mersch, 
— its  atmosphere,  which  apparently  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  elements  that  combine  to  give  it  a  place  on  the 
map  as  one  of  the  duchy's  important  towns. 

Its  newness — even  the  somewhat  modern  flat-building 
nearing  completion  on  the  west  side  of  the  town  after  six 
years'  delay  in  construction,  because  of  the  war  and  sub- 
sequent high  prices  of  materials — is  laid  over  a  founda- 
tion of  antiquity,  like  the  red  paint  on  the  chateau.  One 
who  learns  to  know  Mersch  comes  to  see  in  it  an  amusing 
picture  of  a  dear  old  lady  in  search  of  her  youth  but 
unable  to  forget  that  she  is  a  dear  old  lady. 

In  detail  the  little  city  is  a  disappointment  because  it 

227 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

promises  so  much  and  shows  so  little.  But  if  the  visitor 
possesses  sufficient  imagination  to  repopulate  it  with  the 
interesting  ghosts  that  made  its  history,  it  is  worth  a  visit 
and  extended  exploration.  At  any  rate,  it  is  the  gateway 
to  the  sprite-haunted  vales  of  the  Alzette,  Mamer,  and 
Eisch  and  a  landmark  of  great  adventure. 

North  from  Mersch  rather  more  than  a  kilometer, 
nestling  in  a  little  nook  between  the  Alzette  and  the  row 
of  hills  to  the  left  of  the  river,  sleeps  Pettingen,  a  tiny 
town  situated  amid  evidences  of  a  vanished  greatness. 

Here  are  ruined  watch-towers,  vestiges  of  the  Roman 
occupation  of  the  first  and  second  centuries,  more  pre- 
tentious ruins  that  once  were  fortress  walls,  and  a  mighty 
pile  that  was  a  robbers'  roost  of  unconventional  lines. 
Schloss  Pettingen,  home  of  the  wandering  Centurion,  is 
remarkable  for  the  several  ways  in  which  it  violates  the 
accepted  styles  of  early  architecture  and  construction. 

No  one  but  Julius  Caesar  himself,  or  the  general  to 
whom  he  directly  delegated  the  task  of  establishing  the 
army  of  occupation  in  Luxemburg,  could  explain  why 
Pettingen-on-the-Alzette  should  have  been  chosen  for  the 
building  of  a  strong  point.  Unlike  other  walled  chateaux 
of  the  district,  it  is  not  built  upon  a  hill.  It  is  close  to 
the  river  level  in  a  spot  that  could  have  been  of  no  great 
importance  strategically.  The  standing  ruins  show  it  to 
have  been  an  unbeautiful  structure  of  considerable  size, 
U-shaped,  with  squat  round  towers  at  the  outer  corners. 

228 


MERSCH  AND  PETTINGEN 

It  was  surrounded  with  a  massive  wall,  sixteen  feet  thick 
at  the  bottom,  and  a  moat  perhaps  twenty  feet  deep,  con- 
nected with  the  river  by  a  short  canal.  The  walls  of  the 
main  building  were  from  eight  to  ten  feet  thick,  which 
accounts  for  their  state  of  preservation  after  some  four- 
teen hundred  years.  The  foundations  and  remarkable 
system  of  dungeons  cut  out  of  the  rock  below  the  castle 
are  said  to  date  from  the  first  century. 

Two  towers  and  one  wing  of  the  structure  remain  vir- 
tually intact.  The  rest  has  collapsed,  filling  the  moat 
with  tons  of  rock.  The  dungeons,  however,  are  still  in 
good  condition,  as  damp  and  evil-smelling  as  they  were 
when  the  Centurion  was  buried  alive  in  them. 

He  is  said  to  have  been  a  politician  with  an  ax  to  grind 
at  Rome,  who  attempted  to  lead  a  rebellion  in  Pettingen 
Castle,  intending  to  assault  and  capture  another  camp  at 
Marisca.  He  was  betrayed  and  was  thrown  into  the 
dungeon  by  the  military  governor. 

He  was  a  persistent  creatare,  however,  and  he  thought 
he  understood  the  construction  of  the  castle  well  enough 
to  carve  a  tunnel  out  to  the  river.  Had  it  not  been  for 
one  slight  miscalculation  he  would  have  succeeded.  In 
cutting  through  the  wall  he  chose  a  point  behind  a  but- 
tress. The  masonry  in  that  place  was  about  forty  feet 
thick.  He  had  dug  in  twenty  feet  when  the  vile  diseases 
of  the  prison  killed  him.    Had  he  started  to  burrow  five 

229 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

feet  to  the  right,  he  would  have  got  through  the  barrier 
to  freedom. 

And  now,  say  the  oldest  inhabitants,  he  comes  back  to 
survey  his  work  and  wail  over  his  error, — a  useless  occu- 
pation, one  would  judge,  considering  that  whether  he  had 
succeeded  in  getting  out  or  not  the  result  would  make 
little  difference  to  him  after  all  these  years. 

But  ghosts  were  never  logical  creatures. 

Northward  the  Alzette  winds  to  Colmar-Berg,  the 
grand-ducal  country  estate. 

The  wagging  tongues  of  Luxemburg  have  not  dealt 
fairly  with  Berg.  They  have  given  it  no  literature  of  its 
own.    It  has  no  legends. 

If  it  had,  they  would  be  thrilling  stories  of  flying 
rocking-horses,  talking  dolls,  Puss  in  Boots,  Jack  the 
Giant-killer,  Cinderella,  and  the  Little  Lame  Prince. 
Berg  is  that  sort  of  palace. 

It  is  an  artist's  supreme  conception  of  a  building-block 
house  on  an  immense  scale,  a  place  of  curving  gables, 
spear-pointed  turrets,  and  rococo  decorations, — a  great 
white  building  with  striking  splashes  of  color.  It  is 
covered  with  funny  little  diamond-shaped  lattices,  odds 
and  ends  of  flower  boxes,  carved  balconies  of  a  highly 
decorative  order, — lavish  magnificence  but  a  bit  too 
lavish. 

Local  tradition  has  it  that  there  have  always  been 
castles  at  Berg.     This  one  was  a  medieval  affair,  badly 

230 


MERSCH  AND  PETTINGEN 

Boufflered  in  the  days  of  the  Grand  Monarch  but  rebuilt 
out  of  its  own  wreckage.  In  the  hands  of  counts  who 
apparently  had  plenty  of  money  to  spend  upon  architec- 
tural achievement,  each  succeeding  generation  saw  it 
''improved"  with  no  direct  reference  to  the  work  of  the 
preceding  generation. 

When  it  became  the  country  residence  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  after  the  signing  of  the  Treaty  of  Vienna  of  1815, 
a  German  architect  was  called  in  to  complete  the  improve- 
ment. In  justice  to  him  it  must  be  said  that  he  accom- 
plished something  in  making  a  coordinate  whole  out  of  a 
number  of  wings,  turrets,  and  donjons  that  hitherto  had 
maintained  a  strictly  independent  part  in  the  picture. 

The  bare  rocks  have  been  covered  with  stucco,  and  a 
uniform  trimming  has  been  added  to  the  eighth-century 
tower,  tenth-century  gate,  sixteenth-century  fagade,  and 
eighteenth-century  cornice.  The  result  is  gingerbread, 
but  fascinating  gingerbread.  A  toy  palace  certainly 
should  not  seem  out  of  place  in  a  toy  country. 

The  inside  of  the  building  is  in  Spanish  renaissance, 
and  as  tasteful,  beautifully  furnished,  and  restful  as  the 
exterior  is  jarring. 

From  here  a  beautiful  young  princess  rode  into  exile. 
That  in  itself  will  furnish  the  basis  for  a  legend  sometime 
in  the  future.  It  has  been  lost  in  the  great  mass  of  more 
important  news  incident  to  world  readjustment. 


231 


CHAPTER  XV 
ETTELBRUCK 


The  Bahnhof  and  a  Cinemadventure 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest, 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 
On  him  that  was  "the  scourge  of  God." 
— Everett:  "A lane  the  Visigoth" 


CHAPTER  XV 

ETTELBRUCK 

A  SETTING,  this,  for  the  second  act  of  a  Strauss 
opera, — color  flashing  under  the  flickering 
lamps,  a  wealth  of  type,  a  wealth  of  costuming. 

The  end  of  the  platform  is  held  by  a  group  of  men  of 
the  grand-duchess's  guard, — a  dozen  soldiers  of  the  pal- 
ace garrison,  a  dozen  uniforms  unlike  any  others  in  the 
world.  Here  is  the  red-topped  cap  of  the  semi-conical 
shape  familiar  throughout  the  duchy;  immediately  next 
to  it  is  another  of  black  patent-leather,  reflecting  pools  of 
light.  A  cerise  band  distinguishes  this  cap.  A  collar  of 
the  same  hue,  peering  above  a  greenish  cape,  marks  the 
owner  at  once  for  a  man  of  rank.  One  catches  the  glint 
of  golden  epaulets  and  silver  ones,  of  saber  knots  and 
lavish  ornamentation  in  gleaming  braid.  A  functionary 
struts  past,  seemingly  conscious  of  his  own  importance 
as  indicated  by  an  edging  of  silver  on  his  collar.  So 
might  a  daisy  seek  attention  in  a  crimson  poppy-field. 

Farther  down  the  platform  a  group  of  French  soldiers 
in  faded  horizon  blue  are  vainly  questioning  a  railroad 
official  who  persists  in  answering  them  in  German.  They 
are  typical  poilus,  abulge  with  haversacks  and  bundles. 

A  little  French  sentry  at  the  entrance  to  the  Wartraum 

235 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

comes  to  a  present-arms  and  drops  his  gun  to  the  order 
once  more  with  a  double  click  on  the  pavement.  His 
head  barely  reaches  the  level  of  the  front  sight,  let  alone 
that  of  the  slim  bayonet. 

There  is  a  smell  of  carbide  in  the  air;  a  can  of  it  is 
leaking  somewhere. 

A  station  porter  has  unloaded  a  grindstone  from  a  flat- 
car  on  a  siding.  He  looks  at  it  for  a  moment  in  half- 
witted perplexity,  then  smiles  a  wily  smile,  turns  it  on 
its  side,  and  trundles  it  off  like  a  wheelbarrow,  the  stone 
serving  as  a  wheel. 

Two  portly  men  in  well-tailored  clothes  and  furry  hats 
glare  with  regularity  and  precision  at  the  French  soldiers. 

On  an  opposite  track  the  Echternach  shuttle  has  just 
come  in.  It  is  bustling  with  all  the  importance  that  an 
unimporant  little  busybody  usually  displays,  its  squeaky 
engine  moving  in  a  smoke  screen,  its  worn  coaches  rattling 
in  every  joint. 

There  are  streaks  in  the  cinder  paths  between  the  tracks 
where  the  dim  light  of  the  quivering  electric  lamps  is 
reflected  by  wet  spots.  Across  the  yards  in  the  lee  of  the 
hill  is  a  bonfire.  The  smoke  drifts  lazily  over  the 
platform. 

Is  plotting  an  art  or  a  science,  an  amusement  or  an 
occupation,  a  piece  de  resistance  or  dessert? 

There  is  a  question  that  writers  of  tea-pot-tempestuous 

236 


ETTELBRUCK 

£ction  have  neglected  to  answer  in  all  the  pages  that  lie 
between  the  Prisoner  of  Zenda  and  the  Sultan  of  Sulu. 

The  readers  of  tabloid  romance  may  have  followed  the 
adventurous  career  of  the  inevitable  American  hero 
through  a  variety  of  toy  kingdoms  and  puzzled  their 
brains  and  strained  their  sentiments  over  morganatic 
marriages,  loveless  but  patriotic  engagements,  entan- 
gling treaties,  national  bankruptcy,  petty  wars,  and  all 
the  other  tricks  in  the  bag;  but  the  most  avid  consumer  of 
the  Zenda  brand  of  literature  doesn't  know  how  much 
Rupert  paid  for  his  beer  at  the  inn,  what  a  seven  counted 
in  the  national  interpretation  of  a  dice  game,  where  the 
peasantry  got  the  wood  for  the  "pleasant  fire"  that  was 
always  blazing  on  the  "broad  hearth,"  what  the  attitude 
of  the  general  public  was  toward  the  toughest  cafe  in 
town,  what  kind  of  brass  helmets  the  firemen  wore,  and 
what  constituted  the  country's  bathing-facilities,  if  there 
were  any. 

The  personal  history  of  Graystork,  Transylvania, 
Moravia,  Belgravia,  Ehrenstein,  and  the  other  storied 
realms  of  latter-day  fiction,  is  shrouded  in  baffling  mys- 
tery. All  the  Graystorkians  ever  did  for  amusement  was 
plot  and  counterplot.  Conspiracy  was  their  national 
game.  They  reveled  in  it.  And  when  they  were  n't 
making  an  assault  upon  a  throne,  they  dropped  out  of 
the  narrative.  Let  the  reader  guess  about  their  home 
life.     After  all,  it  was  a  matter  of  no  moment  to  the 

237 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

beautiful  princess  who  presently  would  have  to  marry 
the  King  of  Hasenpf effer. 

True,  these  fabled  countries  always  had  the  opera. 
The  daily  existence  of  the  people  might  go  on  in  a  vague, 
uncertain  sort  of  literary  way,  having  nothing  to  do  with 
the  plot,  but  the  opera  was  a  thing  quite  concrete,  and 
definitely  mentioned.  The  elite  of  both  sides  of  the  cus- 
tomary conspiracy  always  attended  it.  Evil  designs 
upon  the  autonomy  of  the  country  sprang  into  being 
while  the  royal  orchestra  played  Strauss  waltzes.  The 
opera  has  come  to  be  an  indispensable  adjunct  to  the 
international  romance,  indeed. 

And  in  a  way  it  is  logical  that  people  who  live  in  fairy- 
land should  have  tastes  above  those  of  the  sordid  mortals 
across  the  frontier.  The  folk  of  the  mountain-tops  should 
live  with  their  heads  in  the  clouds. 

A  perfect  country  ought  to  produce  a  perfect  race.  It 
should  work  out  that  way. 

But  it  does  n't  I 

Emile  Meerschaart,  the  Belgian  electrician,  and  I  have 
been  through  Graystork  from  preface  to  finis.  We  have 
seen  it  all, — beautiful  princesses,  revolutionists,  Ameri- 
can heroes,  men  of  mystery, — the  whole  cast  right  on  its 
native  heath.  We  know  what  Graystork  has  to  eat  and 
how  it  goes  about  evading  governmental  food  regulations 
to  get  it.  We  have  been  told  how  much  a  steam-heated 
flat  in  the  capital  would  cost  if  there  were  any  steam 

238 


ETTELBRUCK 

heat.  We  know  how  much  the  captain  of  the  palace 
guard  paid  for  his  uniform.  We  have  learned  what  are 
the  ornamental  distinctions  between  the  traffic  police- 
man at  the  end  of  the  Pont  Adolphe  and  the  chief  of  the 
royal  artillery.  And,  what 's  more,  we  have  discovered 
where  the  folks  next  door  go  after  the  dishes  are  washed 
or  left  in  the  sink. 

They  don't  go  to  the  opera. 

Luxemburg  has  no  opera. 

They  go  to  the  cinema! 

Luxemburg  is  by  history  and  environment  a  cinema  in 
itself, — in  the  midst  of  natural  grandeur  is  the  omni- 
present conspiracy  of  the  story-books. 

The  larger  powers  play  for  a  great  stake  and  the  exist- 
ence of  this  tiny  duchy  is  tolerated  for  purely  strategic 
reasons.  A  war  is  waged  and  a  great  army  sweeps  over 
it — confident  of  victory — and  back,  inglorious  in  defeat. 
A  charming  duchess  plays  politics  and  loses.  Strangers 
sit  in  conference  in  a  strange  land  and  calmly  determine 
the  fate  of  her  abandoned  throne.  The  while  petty  con- 
spirators plan  revolutions,  installing  new  governments, 
reinstating  old,  vacillating  betwixt  republic  and  mon- 
archy, immensely  proud  of  themselves  and  all  unmindful 
of  the  exterior  forces  that  work  their  ruin. 

Had  the  novelists  designed  this  country  to  suit  them- 
selves they  could  have  done  no  better. 

239 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

A  gendarme — or  was  it  a  general? — surveyed  all 
comers  with  a  critical  eye  from  a  point  of  vantage  in  the 
shelter  of  a  high  battlemented  building.  There  was  snow 
in  his  cerise  plume  and  frost  upon  the  shoulders  of  his 
green  overcoat  that  robbed  his  silver  epaulets  of  their 
effect.  But  in  his  serene  dignity  he  stood  as  Ajax  might 
have  stood  in  his  celebrated  dispute  with  the  lightning. 

He  was  impressive  enough  to  have  spoiled  the  business 
of  many  a  European  moving-picture  house  and  bril- 
liant enough  to  have  attracted  great  quantities  of  dimes 
to  the  cinema  palaces  of  the  United  States. 

One  had  only  to  see  the  disdainful  glance  which  he 
bestowed  upon  the  Luxembourgeoise  questing  the  joys 
of  the  film  to  see  that  he  disapproved  of  such  idle  pur- 
suits. The  grown-ups  passed  him  with  haughty  antag- 
onism. The  children  hurried  by  with  sidelong  glances 
as  if  fearful  that  this  splendid  figure  might  interpose 
himself  between  them  and  the  doorway  behind  which 
flickered  the  delectable  movies. 

Once  one  had  braved  the  guardian  at  the  gate,  the  way 
led  up  three  little  stone  steps  to  a  door  common  enough  in 
American  cottages  of  twenty  years  ago, — three  panels  of 
wood,  a  pane  of  glass,  and  a  wealth  of  iron  grating. 

It  did  n't  look  much  like  the  entrance  to  a  theater,  but, 
for  that  matter,  nothing  in  Graystork  looks  like  what 
it 's  supposed  to  be.  The  house  was  a  narrow,  three-story 
stone  affair  with  slim  windows  and  green  shutters.     A 

240 


ETTELBRUCK 

sign  over  the  door  proclaimed  it  to  be  a  cafe.  A  second 
sign,  obviously  a  generation  or  two  younger,  conveyed 
the  added  information  that  the  cinema  might  be  found 
here  and  that  English  was  spoken. 

I  pushed  down  on  the  brass  lever — there  are  no  door- 
knobs in  Luxemburg — and  stepped  in  out  of  the  blizzard. 

There  was  an  instant  impression  of  bar  glass,  electric 
lights,  tables,  straight-backed  chairs,  and  warmth,  with 
an  all-pervading  atmosphere  of  hot  rum.  Some  civilians 
in  velour  hats  and  tight-fitting  overcoats  looked  up  from 
their  steaming  drinks  as  we  added  ourselves  to  the  party. 

The  Kellner,  whose  memory  of  Americans  had  n't  been 
entirely  obliterated  by  the  long  hiatus  in  the  tourist  busi- 
ness, came  running  over  from  the  cage-like  bar  to  bid 
us  welcome. 

But  we  had  n't  come  to  study  the  liquid  nourishment 
of  Ettelbruck.  A  book  may  be  written  on  that  particular 
subject  some  day,  if  some  brave  soul  manages  to  live 
through  the  dangers  of  personal  research.  Meerschaart 
instantly  removed  Herr  Kellner's  doubts  concerning  the 
cause  of  our  visit  with  a  question : 

"Oz/  est  la  cinema?" 

Herr  Kellner  looked  shocked,  then  turned  to  me. 

"You  will  find  the  moving  pictures,"  he  said  in  a  good 
brand  of  Minnesota  English,  "at  the  end  of  the  hallway 
through  that  little  door."    He  indicated  a  door  behind  the 

241 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

bar,  and  added  graciously  as  we  started  to  follow  his 
directions : 

"For  ten  years  I  lived  in  the  United  States." 

We  walked  behind  the  bar,  and  a  narrow  squeeze  it 
was  between  the  porcelain  counter  and  the  shelf  of  glass- 
ware. With  the  venturesome  air  that  befitted  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  opened  the  door  and  crossed  the  threshold 
into  a  cold  corridor. 

Here  was  a  foyer  unique  in  the  world  of  theatricals. 
Meerschaart  may  have  been  prepared  for  it — for,  after 
all,  his  country  and  this  are  half-sisters — but  nothing  in 
my  experience  had  given  me  warning.  Women's  clothes, 
some  very  intimate  articles  of  wearing-apparel,  hung 
upon  a  row  of  hooks  along  one  side  of  the  hall.  I  hesi- 
tated a  moment. 

"We  're  breaking  into  somebody's  bedroom,"  I  de- 
clared. 

"Maybe  that 's  where  they  have  the  cinema,"  returned 
the  Belgian,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "Either  there  or 
in  the  kitchen." 

The  atmosphere  of  the  corridor,  redolent  of  garlic 
and  boiled  cabbage,  seemed  to  give  assurance  that  supper 
was  to  be  served  somewhere  soon,  but  as  yet  we  had  no 
right  to  leap  at  conclusions.  Anything  might  happen 
before  we  came  to  the  exit. 

Beyond  the  clothes-hooks  was  another  door.  We 
passed  through  it  into  a  big  bare  room  with  plain  white 

242 


ETTELBRUCK 

walls  hung  with  ancient  champagne  advertisements.  On 
the  side  opposite  the  entrance  was  a  double  doorway 
curtained  with  red  chenille  hangings,  and  at  one  side  of 
it  was  a  table  where  a  woman,  probably  the  owner  of  the 
clothes  in  the  hallway,  sold  tickets. 

The  entrance  fee  was  three  francs  apiece.  The  origi- 
nal cost,  however,  was  the  only  expense  that  had  to  be 
figured  in  the  afternoon's  entertainment.  No  tip  was 
expected  by  the  "usherette"  inasmuch  as  there  was  no 
"usherette,"  and  there  was  no  charge  for  the  program, 
that  being  salvaged  from  the  floor  in  the  vicinity  of  one's 
seat. 

A  reel  of  post-war  comedy  showing  the  triumph  of 
President  Wilson  over  a  caricature  of  the  kaiser — an  ani- 
mated cartoon  of  the  French  school — was  just  flickering 
to  a  close  as  we  entered.  The  spectators,  whom  we  could 
not  see  in  the  gloom,  were  dutifully  applauding.  How 
much  of  this  frantic  enthusiasm  was  due  to  inward  faith 
and  how  much  to  public  policy  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 

National  ideas  in  a  country  like  Luxemburg  are  bound 
to  change  as  conditions  which  affect  the  national  exist- 
ence are  altered.  Tastes  in  moving  pictures  as  in  govern- 
ments are  likely  to  be  decided  by  artillery  duels  a  hun- 
dred miles  across  the  frontier. 

The  lights  flashed  up  and  we  got  a  glimpse  of  what 
our  three  francs  had  brought  us  to. 

We  were  standing  in  a  sort  of  low  balcony  along  one 

243 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

side  of  a  rectangular  room.  The  screen  was  stretched 
across  the  corner  opposite  the  door.  On  the  main  floor 
the  seating-facilities  consisted  of  two  benches  and  per- 
haps fifty  straight-backed  wooden  chairs.  A  bar  with 
china  fixtures,  similar  to  the  one  in  the  room  through 
which  we  had  passed,  occupied  one  end  of  the  room,  lead- 
ing one  to  suspect  that  this  place  had  not  always  been  a 
temple  of  the  cinema. 

It  is  not  altogether  correct  to  infer  that  all  of  this  was 
immediately  visible.  For  all  the  brilliance  of  perhaps  a 
dozen  incandescent  lamps,  we  had  been  in  the  place  some 
minutes  before  the  salient  features  of  it  began  to  impress 
themselves  upon  us.  The  atmosphere  was  a  vast,  well- 
nigh  impenetrable  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke. 

We  found  some  seats  on  a  bench  at  the  edge  of  the 
balcony  and  disposed  ourselves  as  best  we  could.  The 
seats  in  the  pit  were  occupied  mostly  by  children,  little 
girls  about  ten  years  old  predominating,  with  a  scatter- 
ing representation  of  adults.  There  was  an  incessant 
chattering  among  the  youthful  patrons,  but  no  func- 
tionary in  brass  buttons  came  to  interrupt  them.  There 
seemed  to  be  any  number  of  little  black  velvet  bonnets  in 
the  house,  some  of  them  trimmed  with  pink  ribbons,  some 
with  blue.  A  minority  of  small  boys  in  the  round  cap  of 
the  French-marine  type  assisted  in  the  manufacture  of 
the  din,  making  one  notable  contribution  in  the  way  of  a 
fist  fight  before  we  had  been  in  the  place  five  minutes. 

244 


'J 

ID 

PQ 
'A 


n 


o 


ETTELBRUCK 

I  took  advantage  of  the  wait  between  pictures  to  look 
at  the  red  program. 

The  information  conveyed  in  three  assorted  languages 
was  little  short  of  astonishing.  I  learned  from  the  Eng- 
lish part  of  it  that  there  would  be  : 

MOVING  PICTURES 

at  Sunday 

In  the  Afternoon  at  3  o'Clock 

at  night  8  o'clock 

at  SATURDAY  and  MONDAY 

at  Evening  at  8  o'clock 


ECLAIR  JOURNAL 

The  Kaiser  and  President  Wilson 


Sherlock  Holmes 
the  greatest  american  detektiv  in : 

ON  THE  LINE 

OF  THE   FOUR 

In  2  Parts 

Casimir  and  the  Fireman 
Humorist  in  1  act 


THE  BLACK  CAP'TAIN 

Far  West  Drama 


and 

Flottes  Orchester 

1  Platz,  3  Fr.;  2  Platz,  2  Fr.;  3  Platz,  1.50  Fr. 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

And  there  were  further  words  in  German  to  the  efFect 
that  children  would  be  admitted  to  matinee  oerformances 
at  half-price. 

It  was  in  the  French  part  of  the  bill  of  fare,  however, 
that  the  true  eloquence  of  the  cinema  management 
showed  itself.  To  begin  with,  the  pedigree  of  the  films 
was  presented  to  the  attention  of  the  public.  To  a 
stranger  in  the  land,  an  itinerant  who  might  be  interested 
in  the  English  program,  a  him  would  be  merely  a  film.  It 
was  in  the  nature  of  the  tourist  to  take  what  one  gave  him 
and  pay  well  for  the  privilege.  The  native  sons,  how- 
ever, must  be  advised  of  the  quality  of  the  product  that 
they  were  asked  to  purchase.  Hence  they  were  told  with- 
out preliminary  waste  of  space  upon  the  topics  of  the 
pictures  that  the  films  were  from  Paris.  To  cinema- 
fanciers  who  for  four  long  years  had  gazed  upon  flicker- 
ings  from  Prussia,  the  name  Paris  probably  carried  a 
magic  appeal. 

The  kaiser  and  President  Wilson,  on  this  side  of  the 
dictionary,  were  passed  over  in  small  type.  So  was 
Sherlock  Holmes,  "the  greatest  american  detektiv."  But 
Le  Capitaine  Noir  came  in  for  a  great  deal  of  publicity  of 
the  circus-poster  variety. 

This  feature  was  billed  as  "A  great  drama  of  adven- 
ture in  four  acts  and  a  prologue, — a  number  of  sensa- 
tional scenes:  Chases  on  the  Plains;  the  Ambush;  The 
Mark  of  Fire ;  The  Escape ;  The  Burning  Granary."  One 

246 


ETTELBRUCK 

would  be  a  sensation-seeker  indeed  who  could  wish  for 
more  excitement  for  his  three  francs. 

I  suspected  from  the  first  that  "On  the  Line  of  the 
Four,"  however  much  it  might  promise  as  a  war  picture, 
was  very  likely  our  old  friend  and  neighbor  "The  Sign  of 
the  Four,"  and  so  it  was. 

The  original  nationality  of  the  piece  was  a  doubtful 
matter.  There  was  hardly  enough  of  it  left  to  give  one  a 
consecutive  idea  of  the  plot,  and  the  French  captions 
were  so  worn  that  little  was  to  be  gained  from  them.  It 
may  have  been  an  American  film  of  that  era  when  there 
were  no  stars.  At  any  rate,  no  latter-day  favorites 
appeared  in  it.  It  may  have  been  English.  Certain  ele- 
ments in  the  "locations"  suggested  England  forcibly. 
But  whatever  its  pedigree,  its  days  of  usefulness  were 
nearly  done. 

The  Anglo  Saxons  in  the  house,  to  whom  the  name 
Sherlock  Holmes  was  a  sufficient  guaranty  of  story 
action  and  plot,  could  not  get  very  far  with  the  titles  in 
French.  Those  who  had  mastered  enough  of  the  lan- 
guage to  surmount  this  difficulty  were  certain  to  become 
hopelessly  muddled  in  the  aimless  mixing  of  scenes  that 
seemed  to  be  the  result  of  many  years  of  "cut  and  patch." 

The  children,  however,  enjoyed  the  piece  just  as  young 
America  used  to  enjoy  pictures  of  fleeting  express- trains 
and  dashing  fire-engines.  The  doings  of  the  "greatest 
american  detektiv"  as  marvels  of  mental  acrobatics  ap- 

247 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

pealed  to  them  not  a  whit.  But  the  doings  of  the  East 
Indian  murderer  with  his  shiny  black  hide,  his  wicked 
eye,  and  his  deadly  poisoned  dart,  were  truly  delightful. 

*'Der  Schwarze,''  as  they  nicknamed  him,  could  not  so 
much  as  twist  a  finger  from  the  moment  of  his  first 
entrance  into  the  drama  until  the  last  ghostly  glimmer  of 
Dr.  Watson's  romance,  without  arousing  an  excited  hum 
throughout  the  house. 

The  children  wildly  applauded  his  capture  and  cast 
upon  him  any  number  of  maledictions  in  German  and 
French.  They  commented  volubly  upon  the  flashes  sup- 
posed to  show  the  theft  of  the  rajah's  jewels  in  India,  and 
stood  up  in  their  seats  and  yelled  when  the  Black  was 
shown  in  the  act  of  shooting  the  fatal  dart. 

They  may  have  gathered  something  from  the  torn  film 
to  give  them  an  inkling  of  the  motive  of  revenge  that 
underlay  the  murderer's  desire  to  kill.  But  from  their 
point  of  view  the  motives  were  immaterial.  This  Indian 
person  was  downright  murderous.  They  had  seen  him  in 
his  deadly  but  interesting  pastime  of  shooting  poisoned 
arrows, — truly  a  reprobate.  And  he  was  chased  and 
caught  and  turned  over  to  the  gendarmes.  Served  him 
right  I     A  very  excellent  picture  I 

We  learned,  too,  that  the  burghers  are  a  romantic 
people,  as  befits  their  surroundings  and  traditions.  They 
sighed  with  sympathy  when  Dr.  Watson  breathed  words 
of  love  into  the  ear  of  Mary  Marston.    They  murmured 

248 


ETTELBRUCK 

approbation  when  he  put  his  protecting  arm  about  her 
in  that  tense  moment  just  before  the  discovery  of  the 
murder;  and  they  howled  with  startling  intensity,  adults 
and  infants  alike,  when  the  film  snapped  off  short  before 
the  climacteric  embrace. 

The  flottes  Orchester  was  the  greatest  disappointment 
in  the  show.  It  failed  to  arrive.  A  small  boy  with  a 
typical  toy  harmonica  attempted  to  remedy  the  deficiency 
with  plaintive  notes  that  filtered  unpleasantly  through 
the  other  noises. 

Between  films  we  got  another  glimpse  of  our  sur- 
roundings. 

On  the  wall  near  the  entrance  there  were  yellowing 
posters  of  past  feature  pictures.  They  were  uniformly 
German  and  slipshod,  the  type  one  used  to  see  before  the 
nickelodeons  of  a  decade  ago.  One  bore  the  title  ''Schwer 
Geprilft^'  and  showed  a  Prussian  villain  staring  through 
a  brick  wall  at  a  blonde  girl  playing  a  piano.  Another 
was  a  sketch  in  black  and  white  advertising  *'D^r  Ge- 
streifte  Domino^  The  domino  was  a  doleful-looking 
person  whose  activities  in  the  film  were  not  described. 

In  a  far  corner  was  a  French  advertisement  for  "Deux 
Ames  de  Foupee^'  played  by  a  "notable  cast  of  three" 
from  some  theater  in  Paris.  None  of  these  posters  looked 
new,  though  the  theater  undoubtedly  had  been  in  use  dur- 
ing the  German  occupation.  This  led  us  to  believe  that 
any  films  shown  in  Luxemburg  since  the  autumn  of  1914 

249 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

must  have  been  worn-out  stock,  hastily  salvaged  from  the 
waste-heaps  to  struggle  through  four  years  more  of  life. 
The  conviction  remained  with  us  even  after  the  pro- 
prietor had  assured  us  that  a  Copenhagen  distributor  had 
given  him  a  choice  of  first-run  productions  during  the 
entire  period  in  which  the  French  supply  was  unavail- 
able. 

The  adventures  of  the  Black  Captain  started  inaus- 
piciously.  The  picture  was  improperly  framed  during  the 
first  few  seconds  and  the  lower  half  appeared  on  top  and 
the  upper  half  below,  as  is  the  universal  custom  with  un- 
framed  cinema. 

Immediately  the  ensemble  of  spectators  yelled  out, 
"HochJ"  with  a  unanimity  that  shook  the  ancient  rafters. 
The  film  presently  slid  into  its  proper  groove,  and,  save 
for  the  normal  clatter  of  the  children  and  their  parents, 
quiet  was  restored.  To  a  visitor  the  incident  was  worthy 
of  note  as  something  odd  in  the  system  of  communication 
between  the  house  and  the  management. 

It  has  its  points  of  superiority  over  the  good  old  Amer- 
ican custom  of  kicking  chair  backs,  whistling,  and  foot- 
stamping,  as  any  one  will  admit.  It  is  no  easier  on  the 
ears,  perhaps,  but  its  effect  is  quicker.  No  operator,  not 
even  a  German  operator,  can  stand  the  concerted  shriek- 
ing of  half  a  hundred  excited  youngsters. 

The  prologue  of  this  "adventurous  picture" — the 
words    are    those    of    the    opening    caption — extended 

250 


ETTELBRUCK 

through  about  a  reel  and  a  half  of  the  total  four.  Whether 
out  of  deference  to  an  artistic  color  scheme  or  not  we  can- 
not say,  but  Monsieur  Violet,  a  French  actor,  was  cast 
in  the  role  of  Capitaine  Black.  The  girl  in  the  piece, 
whose  name  we  have  forgotten,  and  the  deep-dyed  villain 
who  stole  her  love,  were  the  only  important  figures  in  the 
story  aside  from  the  colorful  captain.  The  lady  appeared 
to  be  at  least  as  old  as  the  film,  which  was  old  enough,  and 
had  a  sharp  nose  a  trifle  too  long  for  her  own  good.  But 
she  suited  the  spectators  in  the  seventy-five  centime  seats, 
and  from  that  time  forward  we  knew  that  the  picture  was 
going  to  be  well  received. 

Monsieur  Violet,  as  the  Duke  of  Chablis,  is  in  love 
with  Miss  Arabella,  a  circus  rider.  He  marries  her,  much 
to  the  grief  of  his  best  friend, — another  duke  whom,  for 
the  purpose  of  identification,  we  shall  call  the  Duke  of 
Ornans. 

After  the  inevitable  elopement  of  Lady  Arabella  with 
the  Duke  of  Ornans,  Monsieur  Violet  meets  the  wrecker 
of  his  home  and  kills  him  in  a  duel.  The  two  former 
friends  become  reconciled  in  the  death  scene  and  the 
wrecker,  after  the  fashion  of  wreckers,  warns  the  wronged 
husband  to  beware  of  the  woman  who  is  "the  cause  of  it 
all." 

The  husband  encounters  the  faithless  wife  as  he  is 
carrying  the  body  of  the  betrayer  into  the  chateau  whither 
the  erring  couple  have  fled.  It  is  a  strong  scene  in  many 

251 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ways,  about  as  well  acted  as  it  Is  original,  with  many 
flashes  of  raised  hsts  and  kneeling  supplication.  Here 
the  prologue  ends  in  a  hysterical  burst  of  recrimination 
and  anathema. 

None  of  this  was  in  keeping  with  the  moral  code  of 
Luxemburg,  where  marriages  are  pretty  sure  to  be  perma- 
nent. But  it  was  romantic,  passionate,  bombastic,  and 
was  applauded  with  shouts. 

The  next  scene  showed  the  arrival  in  America  of  the 
Lady  Arabella,  who  had  journeyed  into  the  Far  West 
to  claim  an  estate  left  her  by  the  traitorous  friend. 

And  it  was  truly  a  wonderful  America  in  which  she 
found  herself. 

An  official  with  a  uniform  like  that  of  a  milkman  car- 
ried her  suit-cases  from  an  unfamiliar  railway  platform  to 
a  stage-coach.  The  coach  was  a  long,  slim  thing  like  the 
French  arniy's  "Fourgon,  Mile.  1887."  It  was  drawn  by 
three  horses  and  greatly  resembled  the  American  vehicle 
it  was  supposed  to  represent  in  that  both  of  them  had 
wheels. 

In  the  meantime  the  Duke  of  Chablis  had  become  the 
chief  of  a  band  of  Mexican  outlaws,  and,  under  the  name 
of  the  Black  Captain,  was  spreading  terror  along  the 
borders  of  the  United  States, — a  splendid  revenge  for  a 
husband  whose  home  had  been  wrecked,  but  a  bit  hard  on 
Texas  or  New  Mexico. 

The  Luxemburgers  could  not  understand  this  idea  of 

252 


m 


o  E 


o 


ETTELBRUCK 

vengeance.    But  theirs  not  to  question  why.    It  was  ac- 
tion they  wanted  and  action  they  got. 

The  bandits  attacked  the  stage-coach. 

Artful  bandits  they  were.  They  kept  themselves  in- 
formed of  the  movements  of  the  coach  by  a  clever  system 
of  espionage.  If  the  girl  had  only  noted  the  dark  figure 
at  the  corner  of  the  station  platform,  what  excitement 
she  might  have  saved  herself!  She  would  have  recog- 
nized him  at  once  for  a  foe.  For  he  was  attired  in  a 
fedora  hat  with  a  feather  in  it,  and  even  a  timid  European 
knows  that  the  Indians  who  have  for  their  tribal  insignia 
the  fedora  hat  are  the  most  bloodthirsty  of  all. 

Of  course  there  was  a  battle.  It  was  n't  a  very  good 
battle  at  first,  because  both  sides  failed  to  show  any 
marksmanship  until  they  warmed  up  to  their  work.  But 
after  about  a  kilometer  of  chase  things  were  different. 
Nearly  everybody  on  both  sides  dropped  dead  at  once. 
It  was  a  thrilling  climax. 

The  few  passengers  left  alive  clambered  out  of  the 
coach  to  permit  themselves  to  be  robbed,  the  Lady  Ara- 
bella confronting  the  mysterious  Black  Captain.  And 
the  house  actually  approached  silence.  One  could  have 
heard  an  anvil  drop,  so  quiet  was  that  tense  moment  when 
he  lifted  his  mask  and  showed  the  once  trusted  but  treach- 
erous love,  his  sneering  lips  and  hate-filled  eyes. 

He  was  very  deliberate  about  it, — always  the  gentle- 
man, the  duke,  outlaw  or  not.    He  was  so  deliberate  that 

253 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

he  turned  his  back  upon  her  momentarily  and  she  escaped. 

The  outlaws  held  a  brief  conference  and  leaped  to 
horse  in  pursuit  as  she  sped  down  the  glistening  road. 

The  house  had  a  wild  time  about  it. 

American  moving-picture  men  used  to  hold  long  news- 
paper debates  concerning  the  propriety  of  applauding  the 
silent  drama.  But  I  have  never  yet  seen  a  decision  rela- 
tive to  the  etiquette  of  starting  a  riot  at  a  thrilling  mo- 
ment. The  young  Luxemburgers  stood  up  in  their  chairs 
and  howled. 

The  people  of  the  grand  duchy  are  not  so  volatile  as 
those  of  France.  Superficially  they  bear  a  closer  re- 
semblance to  their  German  neighbors.  But  they  stand 
proved  a  race  apart  to  one  who  has  ever  seen  them  at  the 
cinema.  They  feel  deeply  and  express  themselves  ener- 
getically regardless  of  time  or  place.  They  leap  from 
stolidity  to  intense  animation  with  the  quickness  of  a 
flash  of  light. 

The  girl  outdistanced  all  the  bandits  save  the  Black 
Captain,  and  this  relentless  pursuer  chased  her  through 
a  few  Italian  villas  and  other  little-known  parts  of  Mex- 
ico. Just  as  he  caught  up  with  her  the  film  broke  and 
the  cheering  spectators  subsided  with  a  deep  sigh. 

That  gave  us  a  chance  to  escape  without  being 
trampled  upon  and  we  made  the  best  of  our  opportunity. 

It  was  snowing  when  we  reached  the  street.    The  braid- 

254 


ETTELBRUCK 

ed  gendarme  stood  as  we  had  left  him,  his  silver  epaulets 
glistening  like  diamonds  with  the  frost. 

Down  the  street  was  another  picture.  The  shops  were 
alight  and  beautiful  furs  and  gorgeous  uniforms  were 
passing  in  a  continuous  pageant  under  the  lamps.  A 
bent  old  woman  and  an  officer  of  the  princess's  guard 
brushed  by  us  and  up  the  stone  steps ;  then  came  a  little 
girl  and  a  tall  bristly-haired  burgher  who  some  months 
before,  perhaps,  had  been  a  machine-gunner  in  the  crown- 
prince's  army  before  Verdun. 

A  brightly  costumed  functionary  stopped  beside  us 
to  tack  a  proclamation  on  a  convenient  door.  Charlotte 
was  issuing  another  appeal  for  harmony. 


255 


CHAPTER  XVI 
VIANDEN 


The  Dice  of  the  Devil 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold. 

— Bayard  Taylor. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

VIANDEN 

HERE  click  eternally  the  dice  of  the  devil;  here 
rides  the  White  Lady  of  the  Forest,  harbinger 
of  death;  here  Christian  voices  make  echo, 
among  the  tombs  of  vanished  Rome,  the  hymns  of  Baal ; 
here  is  a  miraculous  statue;  here  is  an  enchanted  wood 
presided  over  by  a  mischievous  sprite;  here  walk  the 
ghosts  of  a  glorious  house.    This  is  Vianden. 

No  region  in  Europe  is  richer  in  legend  than  this  rocky 
frontier  where  the  grand  duchy  sticks  an  impudent  little 
elbow  into  the  ribs  of  Prussia.  Upon  the  face  of  no  other 
district  has  history  so  visibly  set  the  mark  of  its  passing. 
Vianden  sleeps  now,  tends  its  vineyards,  presses  its  wine, 
hoes  its  gardens,  and  markets  its  produce  content  to  be 
what  it  is,  but  on  the  hills  above  it  and  along  the  valley 
of  the  purling  Our  crumble  the  tablets  of  a  past  magnifi- 
cence. 

The  tales  of  Vianden  range  in  subject-matter  from 
buried  treasure  to  black  art  and  cover  in  passing  every 
one  of  Polti's  thirty-six  dramatic  situations.  Vianden 
has  been  a  world  within  itself  and  its  traditions  run  the 
gamut  of  human  relationship. 

The  great  castle  on  the  mamelon  behind  the  white 

259 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

village,  from  which  the  lords  of  Vianden  extended  an 
iron-handed  rule  over  thirty  seigneurs  and  fifty-two  vil- 
lages, still  preserves  a  sort  of  massive  integrity  even  in  its 
ruins.  It  was  rated  impregnable,  this  schloss,  and  ap- 
parently had  greater  luck  with  its  impregnability  than  the 
rock  of  Luxemburg  city,  which  it  rivaled  in  artificial  pro- 
tection if  not  in  natural  strategic  position. 

One  gets,  somehow,  the  impression  that  the  town  has 
changed  even  less  than  the  massive  fortress  which  domi- 
nates it,  that  the  atmosphere  of  Vianden  is  virtually  that 
of  feudal  days.  The  people,  who  are  citizens  first  of 
\^ianden  and  then  of  the  grand  duchy,  lend  verisimili- 
tude to  this  fancy.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  a 
few  wraiths  of  a  thousand  years  ago  still  meander  aim- 
lessly down  the  cobbled  streets  and  across  the  ancient 
bridge.  The  remarkable  thing  is  that  there  are  not  more 
of  them. 

Vianden  is  set  over  in  the  northeast  corner  of  the  Ar- 
dennes and  is  reached  from  Diekirch  by  a  chemin  de  fer 
vicinal  which  achieves  the  acme  of  vicinality. 

The  railroad  pursues  a  diffident  course  through  the  city 
from  the  Diekirch  station,  shrieking  at  dull  pedestrians, 
sleepy  horses,  playing  children,  and  the  dozen  and  one 
other  things  that  make  steam  traffic  perilous  in  city 
streets.  Part  of  the  way  it  follows  the  line  of  the  old 
ramparts  of  the  town.  For  a  mile  or  two  it  appears  to  be 
traveling  in  areaways  between  houses,  across  back  yards, 

260 


Q 

< 
> 


VIANDEN 

under  the  drip  of  overhanging  eaves,  and  within  scrap- 
ing distance  of  door-steps. 

The  whistle  blows  until  one  hopes  that  there  will  be 
steam  enough  left  to  push  the  little  tea-kettle  locomo- 
tive to  the  end  of  its  journey,  and  the  bell  is  kept  at  a 
continual  clangor.  The  novelty  of  Vianden  begins  with 
the  means  of  getting  there.  For  a  mile  after  leaving  the 
Sure,  the  road  follows  the  sparkling  Blees,  so  close  to  it 
that  at  times  it  seems  that  the  wheels  must  be  turning  in 
water.  But  the  tiny  road  is  a  fickle  thing.  It  rattles  sud- 
denly through  a  woods,  dives  into  a  tunnel,  and  emerges 
on  the  right  bank  of  the  river  Our  amid  a  vast  setting  of 
mountain  scenery  and  in  plain  view  of  Germany. 

The  international  significance  of  the  Our  is  emphasized 
by  the  striped  sentry-boxes  at  either  end  ofi^the  bridges 
that  span  it  every  few  miles  where  roads  come  unexpect- 
edly out  of  woods  and  hills  to  go  journeying  toward  the 
Rhine.  Formerly  there  was  only  one  box  on  a  bridge  and 
that  usually  untenanted,  for,  although  Luxemburg 
stoutly  maintained  her  independence,  she  was  in  the  Ger- 
man customs  federation  and  frontier  routine  was  a  mere 
formality.  Now  that  the  duchy  is  allied  to  France,  the 
polished  patent-leather  bonnets  and  creaking  boots  that 
gave  an  authoritative  look  to  the  scenery  on  the  southwest 
border  have  been  moved  to  a  new  field  of  service. 

One  may  alight  at  Roth,  however,  and  cross  into  Prus- 
sia to  follow  afoot  the  romancef ul  road  to  Vianden.    The 

261 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

local  authorities  are  used  to  such  adventuring  and  are 
consequently  more  lax  in  their  handling  of  passports  than 
elsewhere  along  the  river.  Even  at  the  expense  of  slight 
inconvenience,  however,  a  halt  at  Roth  is  advisable. 

There  are  many  things  worth  seeing  in  this  neighbor- 
hood. Roth  itself  resembles  one  of  those  cardboard  vil- 
lages that  came  out  of  the  Schwarzwald  in  vast  quanti- 
ties before  the  toy-makers  abandoned  hammer,  chisel,  and 
paint-brush  for  bayonet,  rifle,  and  chlorine-sprayer.  A 
little  white  church  that  was  built  sometime  prior  to  the 
thirteenth  century  still  bears  the  arms  of  the  Templars 
and  their  successors,  the  Knights  of  Malta.  It  was  given 
to  the  former  about  1225  a.  d.  and  remained  in  their  pos- 
session a  hundred  years.  Its  earlier  history  is  cloudy,  but 
tradition  holds  that  St.  Willibrord  built  it  upon  some 
well-preserved  ruins;  hence  the  well-substantiated  belief 
of  some  archaeologists  that  it  was  once  a  shrine  of  Roman 
gods.  The  theory  is  borne  out  by  other  marks  of  the  pass- 
ing of  Diana,  Venus,  Mars,  and  their  fellow  claimants 
to  a  sorry  deity,  where  the  road  sweeps  on  toward  the 
lordly  Vianden. 

Formerly  there  stood  at  Poschet  a  castle  fortress  of  the 
Templars  and  any  one  in  Roth  will  tell  you  that  a  tunnel 
connected  this  stronghold  with  the  sanctuary  of  their 
little  church.  To  this  day  an  opening  into  a  mysterious 
passageway  may  be  seen  behind  the  altar.  Where  the 
tunnel  originally  led  in  its  subterranean  wanderings  none 

262 


VIANDEN 

can  say,  for  its  walls  have  caved  in  not  far  from  the 
entrance  and  its  secret  is  buried. 

"But,"  declared  the  cure,  who  had  pointed  with  pride 
to  the  historic  treasures  of  his  chapel,  "tradition  is  too 
certain  on  that  score  to  be  doubted.  The  Templars  had 
this  tunnel  as  an  emergency  entrance  and  exit  to  their 
castle. 

"It  is  still  told  in  these  parts  how  they  kept  their  horses 
there  shod  backward  to  deceive  the  foeman  who  might 
study  their  tracks  in  the  event  that  they  found  flight  nec- 
essary." 

I  forgot  to  ask  him  whether  or  not  these  armored 
knights  ever  returned  with  their  depolarized  horses  after 
the  fashion  of  the  dead-and-gone  inhabitants  of  this 
stamping-ground  for  sprites  and  wraiths.  But,  after  all, 
it  makes  no  difference.  They  probably  do,  leaving  out- 
bound hoof -prints  all  over  the  country-side. 

Between  Roth  and  Vianden,  where  the  road  drops 
down  from  a  German  hill  to  a  lowland  frontier,  are  three 
strange  carvings  in  the  flanking  cliff,  ''die  drei  Jung- 
frauen^'  whose  identity,  after  centuries  of  occupancy  of 
their  chiseled  perch,  is  a  matter  of  considerable  discus- 
sion. The  age  of  the  original  carvings  is  said  to  antedate 
the  incursions  of  Caesar.  At  one  time  the  three  Norns — 
past,  present,  and  future — were  venerated  here.  A  later 
era  renamed  the  shapeless  damosels  as  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  in  honor,  it  is  said,  of  the  three  daughters  of  St. 

263 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Sophia.  The  French  revolutionists,  accepting  their  final 
titles  as  authentic  and  proper,  destroyed  them.  They 
were  subsequently  restored  and  the  community  has  for- 
gotten that  they  were  ever  absent. 

The  ghost  of  this  spot,  however,  has  nothing  to  do 
with  die  drei  Jungf  rauen.  It  is  the  specter  of  a  huge  dog 
with  wolfen  teeth,  glittering  eyes,  and  a  jet  coat  that 
here  comes  back  from  a  dog-pound  beyond  the  grave  to 
plague  the  midnight  traveler. 

One  is  struck  by  the  peculiarity  of  the  boundary  line 
over  which  the  road  crosses  precipitously  into  Luxem- 
burg. Although  European  frontiers  generally  are  ragged 
things,  based  upon  treaties  that  universally  fail  to  con- 
sider topographic  conditions,  it  is  apparent  at  once  that 
the  natural  marker  between  the  Prussian  Rhineland  and 
the  Luxemburg  Ardennes  should  be  the  Our.  A  sentry- 
box,  glistening  with  fresh  paint,  emphasizes  the  fact  that 
it  is  not. 

The  explanation  is  simple  enough.  Vianden  lies  on 
both  sides  of  the  river;  its  lower  faubourg  is  quite  as  large 
as  the  remnant  of  the  walled  city  above.  To  accept  the 
Our  as  a  national  dividing  line  would  have  been  to  parti- 
tion the  town  between  two  nations.  So  the  Congress  of 
Vienna,  which  settled  the  territorial  claims  of  all  that 
part  of  Europe,  pushed  Luxemburg  a  kilometer  or  so  into 
Prussia,  unknowingly  preparing  trouble  for  the  border 

264 


VIANDEN 

patrols  which  were  to  be  made  necessary  by  a  great  war 
then  more  than  a  hundred  years  in  the  future. 

Although  Vianden's  name — originally  Vienna,  from 
the  Celtic  vien^  rocky — indicates  that  some  sort  of  com- 
munity habitation  existed  on  the  present  site  of  the  town 
when  the  Druid  priests  were  wielding  their  encrimsoned 
knives  in  the  sacred  groves  of  the  Ardennes,  and  the  castle 
ruins  are  atop  the  foundations  of  a  Roman  citadel,  the 
ruling  house  came  into  no  historical  note  until  the  twelfth 
century.  As  nearly  as  can  be  determined,  the  castle  and 
the  cinctures  surrounding  the  town  approached  about  that 
period  a  strength  indicative  of  their  future  military  im- 
portance. 

The  counts  of  Vianden  became  yearly  more  impor- 
tant, rivaling  in  time  the  rising  house  of  Luxemburg. 
Vianden  remained  an  independent  county  for  many  a 
century. 

From  the  semi-savage  sovereigns  sprang  lines  of  im- 
portance in  other  countries.  The  lords  of  the  castle  owed 
allegiance  to  few,  gave  it,  sparingly,  to  fewer,  and 
boasted  blood  relationship  with  makers  of  empire  in  the 
Eastern  Empire  and  in  France. 

The  fortunes  of  the  house  became  linked  with  those  of 
Nassau  in  the  fourteenth  century,  when  the  male  line 
was  extinguished  and  Otto  of  Nassau  wooed  and  won 
Adelaide,  the  last  remaining  representative  of  the  direct 
Vianden  lineage.    The  combination  was  productive  of  a 

265 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

stock  closely  allied  with  the  fortunes  of  Europe.  Wil- 
liam the  Silent — great-grandfather  of  the  first  King  of 
Prussia  and  of  William  the  third  of  England,  a  nation- 
builder  on  his  own  account — came  of  the  Nassau-Vianden 
blood.  Of  the  same  ancestral  strain  are  Charlotte,  pres- 
ent Grand-duchess  of  Luxemburg,  and  Wilhelmina, 
Queen  of  Holland. 

The  seat  of  the  family  was  moved  from  Vianden  when 
intermarriage  bound  it  to  the  House  of  Orange.  Its 
decline  is  traceable  from  that  date. 

The  chronicle  of  the  town  is  that  of  a  world  in  minia- 
ture,— an  intermixture  of  glory  and  horror,  which  appar- 
ently were  the  twin  brothers  of  medievalism.  Fire  and 
famine,  the  Black  Death  and  Boufflers  the  ubiquitous, 
one  upon  the  heels  of  the  other,  accomplished  much 
toward  wiping  Vianden,  its  walls,  its  fortress,  and  its 
people  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  climb  to  the  castle  is  long  and  tortuous,  consid- 
erably more  difficult  than  is  apparent  at  iirst  glance.  It 
strikes  up  through  the  town  to  the  left  of  the  hill,  then 
turns  back  upon  itself  to  a  terminal  under  the  tower, 
where  once  swung  a  portcullis. 

Inside  the  gate  is  the  undying  spell  of  clanking  armor 
and  swishing  silks.  Outside,  the  roses  bloom  and  the  sun 
makes  a  dazzling  spectacle  of  the  white  buildings  in  the 
cozy  little  town.  The  hills  are  abloom  with  the  promise 
of  harvest,  but  one  passes  through  the  gate  into  the  twi- 

266 


VIANDEN 

light  of  the  great  shadowy  building  and  its  encircling 
walls,  and  one  breathes  the  odors  of  decaying  wood  and 
leather,  the  indescribable  aroma  of  ruin. 

The  passage  leads  up  by  a  gentle  gradient  to  another, 
larger,  gateway  in  which  oaken  doors  still  hang  on  rusting 
hinges.  A  sign  in  French,  totally  out  of  keeping  with  the 
spirit  of  the  place,  announces  that  the  ruins  are  the  prop- 
erty of  the  grand  duchy  and  that  a  fee  of  a  franc  is 
charged  for  admission. 

A  pull  on  the  bell-cord  clangs  a  dismal  gong,  and  a  bent 
old  woman  peeps  out  through  a  crack  in  the  gate. 

No  better  guide  for  a  tour  of  the  building  than  this 
ancient  crone  could  have  been  selected.  She  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  age  no  less  than  that  of  the  great  unroofed 
gables  that  rise  sturdily  into  the  wind.  When  she  speaks 
her  voice  is  quavering  but  authoritative. 

The  castle  ghosts  are  her  familiars.  She  speaks  of  them 
as  of  intimate  friends. 

She  is  willing  enough  to  tell  of  them,  too,  their  vir- 
tues and  their  foibles,  as  she  leads  along  to  an  open  space 
below  the  chapel  where  grass  and  mosses  have  made  a 
bower  of  chaos.  Against  the  outer  wall  at  the  corner 
where  it  overhangs  the  town  is  the  cottage  where  the  little 
old  guardian  of  the  ruins  lives  with  her  husband. 
Whether  this  ancient  house  was  once  a  gate-keeper's 
lodge  in  the  old  Vianden  or  is  a  modern  addition  erected 
from  the  rubble  hurled  down  by  the  tumbling  arches, 

267 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

it  would  be  hard  to  say.     The  cottage  may  be  twenty 
years  old  or  half  a  dozen  centuries. 

At  a  table  by  her  door  Madame  will  serve  one  with 
Diekirch  beer,  Rhine  wine,  or  what  appears  to  be  a  dilute 
solution  of  nitric  acid  known  as  Limonade.  One  may 
gaze  across  his  drink  and  ponder  upon  the  great  accom- 
plishments of  the  clock,  that  terrible  leveler  of  mundane 
grandeurs.  Man  builds  and  dies,  and  the  sands  from  the 
hour-glass  cover  his  work. 

Marie  Adelaide  had  planned  to  restore  Vianden  as  a 
historical  relic,  but  the  work  had  not  yet  been  begun  when 
a  student  assassinated  an  archduke  at  Sarajevo.  What 
Charlotte  may  do  toward  carrying  out  this  project  has  not 
yet  been  announced.  In  the  interim  time  takes  its  toll,  a 
brick  here,  a  scrap  of  mortar  there,  and  bit  by  bit  the 
castle  approaches  the  rocky  earth  from  which  it  sprung. 

Little  of  the  schloss  is  left  above  the  first  floor  save 
the  walls,  which  still  rise  to  the  point  where  the  vast  roof 
arched  them.  A  portico  of  the  Gothic  style  and  an 
adapted  Roman  gateway  are  well  preserved,  as  are  the 
Roman  kitchens. 

The  kitchens  are  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  house. 
Their  wide,  low-swung  arches  show  no  sign  of  disintegra- 
tion and  the  smoke  of  fires  that  w^ere  in  ashes  long  before 
Boufflers  came  here  for  his  target-practice  still  blackens 
them. 

If  one  fancied  large-scale  cookery  by  medieval  methods 

268 


VIANDEN 

and  had  plenty  of  fire-wood,  he  might  still  cook  a  meal  in 
the  ovens  here.  They  were  the  progenitors  of  the  iireless 
cooker.  The  fire  was  built  in  them,  not  around  them,  and 
fed  carefully  until  the  rocks  were  red-hot.  Then  the 
embers  were  withdrawn  and  the  food  set  in  to  bake. 
Smaller  stoves  of  the  same  type  are  in  use  to  this  day  in 
some  of  the  more  enlightened  parts  of  the  grand  duchy. 

An  immense  salle  des  chevaliers  filled  the  entire  length 
of  the  main  building  along  the  north  wall.  To  the  right 
of  it  was  a  Byzantine  chamber  which,  judging  from  what 
remains  of  it,  must  have  been  magnificent.  The  salle  des 
chevaliers  was  probably  the  largest  room  of  its  sort  in 
seven  kingdoms.  It  would  without  difficulty  accommo- 
date five  hundred  men  for  a  feast  or  a  council  of  war. 

Above  the  hall  of  the  knights  was  an  extensive  dining- 
hall  where  the  nobility  of  the  castle  foregathered.  Its 
floor  is  gone,  though  one  of  the  supporting  arches  still 
rides  across  it,  and  its  huge  carven  fireplace  hangs  ludi- 
crously half-way  up  the  side  wall.  The  arms  of  Nassau 
— three  roses  and  two  figures  leaning  against  a  pitcher — 
are  emblazoned  on  the  mantel-stone  that  crowns  the 
hearth. 

From  here  may  be  seen  what  remains  of  the  tower  room 
where  Yolande,  daughter  of  Margaret  of  Vianden,  was 
imprisoned  when  she  developed  ideas  of  her  own  concern- 
ing matrimony. 

There  is  a  pretty  story  here.    While  Yolande  had  re- 

269 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

fused  to  yield  to  love  in  the  form  of  a  brilliant  wedding, 
she  was  no  stranger  to  kindness  and  the  castle  retainers 
idolized  her. 

One  night  she  made  a  rope  of  her  bedding  and  lowered 
herself  from  the  tower.  Thence,  with  the  aid  of  a  man- 
at-arms,  she  scaled  the  protecting  walls,  stole  down 
through  the  sleeping  village,  and  was  across  the  river 
before  the  guards  noticed  her  absence. 

From  Vianden  she  made  her  way  to  Marienthal,  where 
the  record  of  her  admission  to  the  sisterhood  may  be  seen 
to-day,  inscribed  upon  stone.  Ste.  Yolande,  she  is 
now,  a  holy  memory  in  Marienthal  where  she  became 
abbess,  spent  a  lifetime  in  deeds  of  piety  and  charity 
among  the  people,  and  was  able  to  offer  the  penitent  Mar- 
garet a  refuge  in  her  last  years.     Ste.  Yolande  died  in 

1283. 

The  chapel  stands  at  the  southeastern  end  of  the  build- 
ing, opposite  the  tower  from  which  Yolande  made  her 
perilous  descent.  It  is  a  pentagonal  wing  some  thirty  feet 
in  diameter,  skirted  by  a  cloistered  portico  that  runs 
roundabout  it  from  a  choir-loft  to  the  point  where  the 
tenth  side  coincided  with  the  wall  of  the  dining-hall. 
Chapel  and  portico  are  intact,  a  gem  of  thirteenth-century 
architecture. 

The  chief  feature  of  the  room  is  its  subterranean  ad- 
junct, which  may  be  glimpsed  through  a  hexagonal  hole 
in  the  floor.     This  lower  room,  a  rough-hewn  dungeon, 

270 


VIANDEN 

closely  follows  the  symmetrical  lines  of  the  chapel  above 
and  even  without  the  mysterious  opening  that  connects 
them  would  be  recognized  as  an  important  factor  in  the 
religious  service  of  the  house. 

But  this  double  chapel  is  a  good  deal  of  a  riddle.  Some 
authorities  hold  that  it  is  typical  of  medievalism  in  that 
it  provided  separate  places  of  worship  for  the  lords  and 
the  minions  of  the  castle.  But  that  explanation  is  not 
altogether  satisfactory.  It  has  been  whispered  that  in 
the  regime  of  that  dread  tribunal,  the  Vehmgericht,  a 
lord  of  Vianden  was  one  of  its  chief  officers  and  provided 
this  elaborate  setting  for  its  mysterious  trials.  Whether 
the  Holy  Vehme  operated  here  or  not  is  not  a  matter  of 
accessible  record.  There  is  still  another  explanation, — 
that  Count  Frederick  II,  a  crusader,  modeled  the  place 
after  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  setting  aside  the 
lower  half  of  a  crypt  in  which  his  son  Henry,  also  a  knight 
of  the  cross,  was  instructed  to  lay  him  for  his  last  long 
sleep. 

There  is  a  chapel  a  great  deal  like  it  in  the  an- 
cient fortress  of  Brest  and  it  seems  hardly  likely  that  a 
Frenchman  from  Finistere  and  a  Luxembourgeois  from 
Vianden  should  both  have  decided  to  perpetuate  the 
memory  of  the  crusades  in  their  own  homes  with  models 
of  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher.  This  would  cast 
some  doubt  upon  the  authenticity  of  the  motives  accred- 
ited Frederick  II. 

271 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

However,  it  is  just  as  well  that  the  mystery  of  the 
chapel  is  not  too  easily  solved.  It  adds  to  the  attraction 
of  the  ancient  and  honorable  Vianden  that  it  should  thus 
preserve  its  secrets. 

Legends  of  secret  passages  innumerable  in  and  about 
Vianden  fall  like  well-learned  responses  to  a  catechism 
from  the  lips  of  the  old  guide.  She  has  heard  them  all 
and  remembered  them  to  pass  on  with  countless  embel- 
lishments from  her  own  experience. 

She  lighted  a  stump  of  a  candle  and  led  me  into  the 
cellar,  most  of  which  was  hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock.  She 
knocked  on  the  walls  here  and  there  to  produce  hollow 
echoes  in  support  of  her  theory  that  the  vast  engineering- 
works  of  the  early  counts  of  Vianden  was  still  only  half- 
suspected. 

"Once  a  tunnel  ran  from  here  to  the  tower  on  the  point 
below.  Monsieur,"  she  declared  dramatically.  "Thence 
it  led  to  the  town  and  out  under  the  river.  Its  entrances 
have  been  blocked  by  the  falling  stone." 

She  led  me  to  the  well  almost  beneath  Yolande's  tower 
and  paused  impressively  to  drop  a  stone  into  it.  Long 
afterward  the  faint  tinkle  of  a  splash  came  echoing  back 
and  it  was  easy  to  believe  her  when  she  said  that  the 
bottom  of  the  shaft  was  far  below  the  surface  of  the  Our. 
The  story  of  the  mile-long  tunnel  seemed  more  reasonable 
when  one  considered  the  patience  and  ingenuity  of  the 

272 


VIANDEN 

men  who  had  cut  this  deep  hole  in  the  rock  without 
blasting-powder  or  modern  tools. 

But  the  climax  of  mystery  was  still  to  come.  We  re- 
traced our  steps  into  the  lower  part  of  the  ruin  once  more 
and  presently  came  to  the  dismal  opening  of  the  Hex- 
lach, — the  sorcerers'  hole,  prison-pen  for  witches. 

The  old  crone  suddenly  motioned  for  silence  and  bent 
an  ear  to  the  yawning  crater  of  the  witches'  hole. 

"Do  you  hear  it?"  she  queried. 

Memories  of  the  Spinning-wheel  Lady  of  Ansembourg 
came  surging  back  vividly.  There  was  a  dramatic  pic- 
ture in  the  pose  of  the  old  woman,  her  guttering  candle 
above  her  head,  her  sharp  little  eyes  wide  open,  an  ex- 
pression half  of  fear  and  half  of  expectancy  about  her 
withered  lips.  She  was  like  the  pagan  priestess  of  an 
oracle,  a  votary  at  a  mystic  rite. 

I  listened  and  felt  an  indescribable  thrill  at  the  drama 
of  the  situation.  What  I  was  expected  to  hear  I  could 
not  guess,  but  I  confess  that  I  did  my  best  to  hear  it.  My 
eager  ears,  however,  detected  nothing  ghostly  or  grisly  in 
the  unseen  aura  of  the  witches'  well.  There  was  the 
soughing  of  the  pines,  the  solemn  organ  tone  of  the  moun- 
tain breeze  and  a  faint  whistle  of  an  air  current  some- 
where within  the  great  rock  pile.  But  that  I  had  heard 
before.  Vianden  could  not  claim  it  as  an  indigenous 
phenomenon. 

"Do  I  hear  what*?"  I  inquired  at  length,  admittedly 

273 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

fearful  lest  my  crass  stupidity  might  cause  her  to  leave 
me  without  the  explanation  that  the  strange  ceremonial 
seemed  to  merit. 

She  shielded  the  candle  and  turned  toward  me. 

"The  rattle  of  the  dice,"  she  answered.  "The  rattle  of 
the  dice  upon  the  marble  table-top." 

Once  more  I  listened. 

An  ear  properly  attuned  to  Vianden  can  pick  out  the 
clicking  of  the  dice  above  the  dirge  of  a  storm  or  the 
shriek  of  a  blizzard.  But  I  had  not  yet  served  my  appren- 
ticeship of  faith. 

Siegfroid  of  Vianden  was  one  of  the  gay  young  blades 
of  his  period,  a  gamester  for  high  stakes,  a  warrior  by 
occupation,  and  a  lover  by  way  of  diversion.  He  was 
strong  of  physique,  bold,  and  none  too  scrupulous,  and 
the  knights  of  the  lower  Rhine  came  to  know  him  for  his 
ability  to  hammer  down  a  castle  gate  and  plunder  a 
treasure-chest.  Many  a  woman  knew  him  to  her  sorrow. 
Many  a  bead  of  sweat  on  the  brows  of  serfs  in  distant 
lands  went  to  replenish  the  treasuries  that  he  had  de- 
pleted. 

Constant  companion  with  him  in  his  enterprises  of  the 
sword  was  Henry  the  Red  of  Falkenstein,  a  neighbor 
whose  rockbound  perch  was  scarcely  less  impregnable 
than  the  great  Vianden  itself.  Henry  was  a  hard-drink- 
ing, hard-riding,  hard-iighting  vassal,  in  every  way  an 

274 


VIANDEN 

excellent  companion  for  so  noble  and  energetic  a  youth 
as  the  redoubtable  Siegfroid. 

In  justice  to  their  memories  it  must  be  related  that 
these  genial  young  murderers  were  playful  rather  than 
vicious.  They  felt  the  exuberance  of  youth  and  they 
knew  the  license  of  their  times.  They  saw  nothing  wrong 
in  torturing  a  Jew  peddler  who  happened  to  cross  their 
domains,  or  in  extracting  tribute  from  Christians  who 
did  not  pay  their  tolls  voluntarily.  All  of  this  was 
written  in  the  etiquette  of  the  age.  The  Jews  were  a 
natural  source  of  revenue  and  the  Christians  traveled 
abroad  at  their  own  risk  and  expense,  which  must  have 
been  considerable. 

So  thorough  was  the  Graf  of  Vianden  in  the  placing  of 
imposts  on  the  country-side  that  his  house  prospered. 
Great  stacks  of  gold  and  the  jewels  of  India  poured  into 
iron-bound  coffers  in  the  subterranean  treasure-chambers 
of  the  castle  crag.  Wealth  brought  Siegfroid  more  powei 
Power  brought  him  more  vassals.  And  more  vassals  gave 
him  opportunity  to  extend  his  hunting-grounds.  Which 
proves,  perhaps,  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 

Siegfroid  and  Henry  one  day  tired  of  petty  quarreling 
with  the  burghers  of  Metz  and  the  bishops  of  Treves  and 
embarked  upon  an  expedition  of  greater  magnitude.  The 
lord  of  an  unnamed  Rhenish  castle  was  known  to  have 
brought  a  saddle-bag  full  of  rubies  back  to  Germany  from 
the  Holy  Wars  as  a  present  for  his  beautiful  daughter.  ^ 

275 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

It  pained  Siegfroid  to  think  of  all  this  wealth  of  red 
stones  and  blonde  daughter  in  the  possession  of  a  Rhen- 
ish overlord  who  probably  was  too  boorish  a  person  to  en- 
joy the  beauty  of  either  of  them. 

Siegfroid,  now,  was  a  lover  of  beautiful  stones  and 
could  recognize  a  pretty  face  about  as  far  as  the  next 
man.  He  swept  down  upon  the  German  castle  and 
claimed  the  tribute  that  was  his  due  as  the  best  wielder  of 
Toledo  steel  in  the  immediate  vicinity. 

He  garnered  the  rubies  by  the  simple  expedient  of  pin- 
ning the  graf  to  a  door  with  a  pike  and  required  the  fair 
daughter's  promise  of  marriage  after  a  short  wooing,  the 
primary  attestation  of  love  consisting  of  dragging  her 
across  the  pontlevis  by  the  hair  of  her  head. 

In  triumph  he  and  his  followers  rode  back  to  the  valley 
of  the  Our. 

Henry  of  Falkenstein  did  not  go  home.  At  all  times 
he  had  preferred  Vianden;  more  especially  did  he  prefer 
it  now  that  there  were  spoils  to  be  divided. 

The  girl  was  given  a  room  high  in  the  tower.  The  men- 
at-arms  received  their  ration  of  wine  and  proceeded  to 
become  very  drunk  and  disorderly.  Siegfroid  and  Henry 
retired  to  the  secret  treasure-chambers  to  examine  the 
loot. 

Here  for  the  first  time  in  their  long  acquaintance 
Henry  showed  signs  of  disagreeing  with  his  boyhood 
friend.     He  declined  to  accept  a  minor  portion  of  the 

276 


THE    WATCH   TOWER 

Numerous  legends  state  that  tunnels  ran  from  the  tower  to  the  castle  and  from  the 
castle  down  into  the  \-illage 


UNDERGROUND   PASSAGE 

In  such  rooms  as  this,  carved  from  solid  rock,  the  rival  knights  play  their  game  with 
the  devil's  dice  and  the  rubies  of  the  robber  barons  lie  buried 

VIANDEN 


VIANDEN 

rubies  as  his  share  in  the  proceeds  of  their  joint  enterprise. 
He  advanced  a  claim  for  a  larger  dividend,  recalling  long 
and  faithful  service  and  suggesting  that  the  merit  of  his 
plea  be  decided  by  the  dice. 

Henry  knew,  of  course,  that  Siegfroid's  cupidity  was 
exceeded  by  only  one  other  passion,  the  zest  for  gambling. 
One  cast  of  the  ivory  cubes  upon  the  stone  counting-table 
and  Siegfroid  had  flung  himself  into  the  game. 

It  was  noon  when  they  sat  down.  Far  into  the  night 
the  throwing  of  the  dice  continued,  until  Henry,  by  far 
the  cooler  of  the  two,  and  apparently  the  luckier,  had 
won  all  the  rubies.  Siegfroid,  laughing  at  his  loss,  arose 
to  go. 

"No,"  declared  Henry.  "We  dice  for  the  girl,  also. 
She  is  worth  more  than  the  rubies." 

Siegfroid  sat  down. 

"A  fair  proposition,"  he  conceded.  "We  dice  for  the 
girl  and  we  dice  for  the  rubies  and  we  play  until  one  man 
has  won  all  and  may  the  devil  take  the  man  who  quits 
first." 

"Agreed  I"  shouted  Henry. 

That  vow,  heedlessly  given  and  speedily  regretted, 
was  the  beginning  of  endless  trouble  for  the  two  gam- 
blers. 

There  was  a  crash  of  thunder  and  a  sudden  puff  of  sul- 
phur smoke  and  his  Satanic  Majesty  stood  beside  the 
table.    He  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself  comfort- 

277 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ably  to  watch  the  dice.    And  the  play  has  been  going  on 
ever  since. 

The  devil  made  no  comment.  None  was  needed.  The 
two  players  well  understood  the  meaning  of  his  visit  and 
went  on  as  gentlemen  should,  paying  no  attention  to  his 
supervision.  But  they  dare  not  quit  until  Judgment 
Day.  Unless  unfortunate  chance  gives  to  one  of  them 
the  entire  estate  of  the  other  the  game  will  be  endless. 
The  devil,  of  course,  might  guide  the  dice  with  his  evil 
arts  and  so  hasten  the  climax  of  the  contest,  but,  know- 
ing the  pair  from  early  infancy,  he  has  no  choice  between 
their  souls  and  a  wait  of  a  few  eons  means  nothing  to 
him. 

"No,"  admitted  the  little  old  woman,  "one  cannot  hear 
very  well  to-day.  But  the  sounds  are  there  always, — 
always  the  clicking  of  stone  and  stone.  It  must  go  on 
until  one  of  them  quits.    And  they  will  never  quit." 

I  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  place  into  the  open  air 
where  the  pine  balsam  sweeps  across  the  ruins.  If  one 
imagines  that  there  is  nothing  eerie  about  an  old  wife's 
tale  in  the  mysterious  tunnels  of  a  tumble-down  castle, 
let  him  gaze  as  I  did  into  the  sorcerers'  cage  and  try  to 
avoid  the  contagion  of  a  native's  unwavering  belief. 
One  feels  the  presence  of  the  devil's  dicers  even  though 
he  may  not  be  able  to  hear  the  dice. 

The  dicers  are  not  alone  in  their  ghostly  vigil.    A  spec- 

278 


VIANDEN 

tral  hound  makes  the  rounds  of  the  ramparts  every  now 
and  then,  baying  whenever  he  passes  the  tunnel  openings 
whence  issue  the  sounds  of  the  eternal  gaming  but  other- 
wise conducting  himself  in  a  decorous  manner,  as  befits  a 
dog  of  his  reputation  and  attainments. 

A  picture  of  the  hound  as  he  appeared  in  the  flesh  in 
1400  is  carved  in  the  monument  to  Marie  of  Spanheim,  in 
the  parish  church. 

Marie  was  the  daughter  of  Godfrey  III  of  Vianden, 
who  rode  off  to  the  Holy  Wars  in  the  hope  of  assuaging 
his  grief  over  the  death  of  his  wife.  Godfrey  took  natu- 
rally to  crusading  and  came  home  only  on  rare  occasions. 
In  the  meantime  Marie's  affairs  were  administered  by  a 
seneschal  whom  fallen  arches  had  kept  out  of  the  war. 

This  seneschal  at  first  demonstrated  that  Godfrey's 
confidence  in  him  had  been  well  placed.  He  was  scrupu- 
lously honest  in  the  handling  of  taxes,  the  little  customs 
collections  from  travelers,  etc.  And  he  impressed  upon 
the  village  something  of  his  own  unwavering  loyalty  in 
the  interests  of  the  house  he  served. 

But  while  all  this  was  going  on  Marie  was  growing 
into  womanhood.  The  seneschal  discovered  one  day  that 
she  was  very  beautiful,  and  straightway  his  vaunted 
loyalty  was  forgotten. 

Marie  was  already  affianced  to  the  Count  of  Spanheim, 
but  the  amorous  seneschal  did  not  let  that  interfere  with 
his  plans.     He  declared  his  love  to  Godfrey's  daughter 

279 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

and  made  it  plain  that  it  would  be  best  for  her  to  wed  him 
at  once.  She  indignantly  refused  and  he  threw  her  into 
a  dungeon  to  starve. 

But  the  seneschal  had  not  included  Marie's  greyhound 
in  his  calculations.  Every  day  the  dog  stole  food  for  his 
mistress  and  took  it  to  the  oubliette. 

After  a  time  the  Count  of  Spanheim  came  to  see  his 
affianced  bride.  The  seneschal  told  him  that  she  was 
dead.  Spanheim,  shocked  and  grief-stricken,  prepared 
to  start  upon  the  long  journey  back  to  his  own  country. 

While  he  stood  in  the  courtyard  awaiting  his  horse, 
however,  the  hound  came  running  from  the  building  and 
leaped  upon  him  as  if  greeting  an  old  friend.  The  dog 
fawned  upon  him  for  a  moment,  then  darted  back  toward 
the  castle,  returning  momentarily  to  repeat  the  display  of 
affection.  Spanheim  became  suddenly  suspicious.  It 
was  apparent  that  the  hound  wished  to  lead  him  back  into 
the  building.  He  waited  until  the  archer  on  the  outer 
wall  and  the  guard  atop  the  tower  had  turned  their  backs, 
then  followed  the  dog  into  the  castle. 

He  found  the  fair  Marie,  pale  and  wan  but  otherwise 
unharmed  by  her  imprisonment.  As  soon  as  he  had  car- 
ried her  to  her  own  apartment  he  sought  out  the  traitorous 
seneschal,  handed  him  a  sword,  and  met  him  in  fair  com- 
bat. He  broke  down  the  villain's  guard  at  the  first  onset 
and  crashed  his  great  blade  through  his  helmet  at  the 

280 


VIANDEN 

next.  Marie  and  her  rescuer  were  married  shortly  after- 
ward. 

One  nameless  seigneur  of  Vianden  is  said  to  haunt  the 
ruins  seeking  the  owner  of  a  hat  that  is  never  out  of  his 
hand.    The  story  of  the  hat  is  this : 

There  was  always  considerable  rivalry  between  the 
counts  of  Vianden  and  those  of  Bourscheid.  But  some- 
how the  feeling  never  came  to  the  point  of  open  warfare. 

The  Vianden  knight  now  concerned  about  the  hat  did 
his  best  to  provoke  his  neighbor  into  a  combat,  but  his 
intentions  were  suspected.  The  Count  of  Bourscheid 
failed  to  rise  to  his  bait. 

After  some  years  of  this  animosity  Vianden  announced 
a  change  of  heart.  He  declared  a  truce  with  Bourscheid 
and  invited  his  late  rival  to  his  castle  to  be  guest  of  honor 
at  a  grand  drinking-party.  The  Count  of  Bourscheid, 
who  seems  to  have  been  an  innocent  sort  of  person  for  his 
time,  accepted  this  profession  of  friendship  at  face-value 
and  rode  over  to  the  castle  on  the  Our  accompanied  by 
only  a  few  ornamental  pages. 

During  the  drinking  and  feasting,  that  began  as  sched- 
uled, one  of  the  Bourscheid  pages  overheard  the  varlets 
of  Vianden  chuckling  over  the  manner  in  which  Bour- 
scheid had  stepped  into  the  trap.  The  climax  of  the  cele- 
bration, they  said,  was  to  come  with  the  beheading  of  the 
distinguished  guest. 

The  page  gave  no  indication  that  he  had  overheard, 

281 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

but  as  soon  as  opportunity  offered  he  saddled  two  horses 
and  picketed  them  in  a  grove  just  beyond  the  main  gate  of 
the  citadel.  Then  he  joined  the  servants  in  the  dining- 
hall  and  succeeded  in  whispering  a  warning  to  his  mas- 
ter. 

Bourscheid  departed  from  the  dinner  without  waiting 
for  dessert.  He  got  past  the  drunken  guards  at  the  gate 
without  incident.  He  and  the  page  untethered  the  horses 
and  in  a  few  seconds  were  clattering  down  the  hill  road 
into  the  village  with  Vianden's  yowling  pack  at  their 
heels.  In  the  descent  Bourscheid  lost  his  hat,  which  was 
picked  up  by  the  Count  of  Vianden. 

The  fugitives  reached  the  pontlevis  over  the  Our  just 
as  a  sleepy  sentry  began  turning  the  windlass  to  raise  it. 
Vianden,  baffled,  called  after  his  departing  guest  with 
ironical  humor: 

"You  haven't  taken  your  hat." 

Bourscheid's  triumphant  laugh  answered  him. 

"Better  to  lose  my  hat  than  my  head,"  he  declared 
truthfully. 

The  ancient  guide  was  reluctant  to  see  me  leave  the 
castle.  There  v/ere  many  other  interesting  wraiths  of 
whom  she  would  glady  have  told  me.  It  seemed  that  the 
graveyard  of  the  Vianden  nobles  was  a  useless  waste  of 
ground.  None  of  the  dead  knights  ever  stayed  there 
long  enough  to  get  used  to  their  own  graves.     But  the 

282 


VIANDEN 

shadows  of  the  tall  firs  were  lengthening,  the  Our  was 
glowing  with  the  gold  of  the  setting  sun,  and  I  had  no 
more  time  to  spend  in  ghostly  gossip.  I  passed  down 
the  hill  as  the  milkmaids  were  ascending  it. 

]^Ionsieur  I'heodore  Bassing,  member  of  the  Historical 
Institute  of  Luxemburg,  and  secretary  of  the  City  of 
Vianden,  under  whose  guidance  I  next  fell,  produced  a 
wealth  of  archives  reciting  the  vicissitudes  of  the  com- 
munity from  its  foundation  as  a  Roman  camp  to  the  day 
when  the  late  Professor  Bobo  Ebhardt  came  from  Berlin 
to  supervise  the  restoration  of  the  castle  walls. 

Monsieur  Bassing  states  that  Childebert  III  was  known 
as  the  Count  of  Vianden  as  early  as  711,  although  most 
historians  of  Luxemburg  mark  the  beginning  of  the  house 
with  the  accession  of  Frederick  I,  the  first  independent 
count,  in  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century. 

Vianden  has  well-supported  claims  to  a  much  earlier 
existence.  Roman  coins  of  the  first  century  have  been  un- 
earthed in  various  parts  of  the  town.  Legends  of  Scandi- 
navian gods  cling  to  the  forests  north  of  the  castle.  And 
among  the  people  there  exist  to-day  customs  that  were 
old  when  Phonicia  the  forgotten  was  young. 

There  is  the  ceremonial  of  St.  Martin's  eve. 

It  is  a  rite  not  strictly  indigenous  to  Vianden,  this  an- 
nual parade  of  the  children  in  honor  of  the  saint.  Diis- 
seldorf  and  other   Rhine   cities  are   noted   for  similar 

283 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

observances.    Here,  however,  it  takes  on  a  new  and  pecu- 
liar significance. 

The  shrine  of  St.  Martin  is  on  Noell  Mountain,  oppo- 
site the  castle,  a  place  known  variously  as  Belsberg,  Bal- 
dur's  Mount,  or  Baal's  Mount.  The  aptness  of  the  names 
signifying  a  memorial  to  pagan  deity  is  striking,  for  here 
are  the  oriented  rocks  of  a  Druid  altar  and  other  topo- 
graphical relics  that  indicate  the  ancient  use  of  the  place 
as  an  open-air  temple  for  the  w^orship  of  the  sun-god. 

The  children  of  Vianden  know  little  of  the  Druids  and 
have  heard  of  Baldur  only  as  a  creature  in  a  set  of  engag- 
ing fairy  tales.  But  when  they  set  out  to  do  honor  to  St. 
Martin  the  valley  of  the  Our  suddenly  steps  back  two 
thousand  years  or  more. 

At  twilight  they  stack  fuel  about  a  tall  pole  on  St.  Mar- 
tin's hill.  Rhymes  in  a  gibberish  that  can  be  only  the 
corruption  of  a  forgotten  language  are  chanted  in  runic 
cadence.  Then  the  boys  and  girls  perform  a  dance  about 
the  fire,  snatch  flaming  brands,  and  run  shrieking  toward 
the  village  in  a  weird  display  of  atavistic  savagery. 

The  castle  of  Vianden  reached  its  greatest  strength  and 
extension  in  1270,  at  which  time  the  village  was  a  forti- 
fied town  surrounded  by  a  double  wall  with  five  gates  and 
twenty-four  towers. 

The  ancient  watch-tower  which  still  stands  intact  be- 
low the  castle  walls  dates  from  this  period.  The  suburb 
across  the  river  was  also  girded  with  wall  and  fosse  until 

284 


INNER   COURT— VIANDEN 


VIANDEN 

it  was  really  a  subordinate  fortress  connected  with  the 
principal  defenses  by  a  pontlevis  stretching  from  Roman 
abutments  on  the  site  of  the  present  bridge. 

Among  the  documents  in  Monsieur  Bassing's  collec- 
tion is  a  copy  of  the  franchise  won  from  the  overlord  of 
Vianden  by  the  burghers  after  the  International  Associa- 
tion of  Archers,  Lancers,  Swordsmen,  and  Mace-wielders, 
Vianden  Local  No.  i,  had  thrown  down  its  arms  collec- 
tively and  called  a  strike.  A  remarkable  clause  in  the 
resulting  agreement  guarantees  to  the  people  the  right  to 
rebel  against  their  ruler  in  the  event  that  he  infringes 
upon  any  other  of  the  privileges  guaranteed  them  in  the 
charter. 

After  that  Vianden  became  a  community  unlike  any 
other  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  had  its  own  system  of 
weights  and  measures,  a  whole  retinue  of  petty  municipal 
officials,  and  a  series  of  sumptuary  laws  that  must  have 
made  the  care-free  irresponsibility  of  unchartered  feudal- 
ism appear  like  a  relief  devoutly  to  be  wished. 

There  was  a  quarrel  between  the  Templars  and  the 
Trinitarians  concerning  the  religious  authority  in  the 
county.  During  the  wrangle  the  ruling  count  was  ex- 
communicated, but  he  was  restored  to  grace  by  a  compro- 
mise whereby  the  Trinitarians  took  the  upper  city  and 
the  Templars  assumed  responsibility  for  the  lesser  fort- 
ress over  the  river. 

It  was  sometime  during  this  heydey  of  Vianden's  pros- 

28i 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

perity  that  St.  John  Nepomucenus,  known  locally  by  the 
affectionate  title  of  Bommezines,  was  invoked  as  the  per- 
petual patron  of  the  bridge  and  the  river.  His  statue 
still  stands  on  the  bridge. 

John,  it  is  said,  was  thrown  into  the  Moldau  in  1380. 
by  order  of  Wenceslaus,  when  he  refused  to  violate  the 
seal  of  the  confessional.  Now,  at  midnight  on  May  16,  the 
anniversary  of  his  martyrdom,  the  Vianden  statue  of 
John  Nepomucenus  turns  thrice  on  its  pedestal.  Any  one 
in  the  town  will  tell  you  so. 

Vianden's  real  trial  by  fire  began  early  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  when  the  terribly  jumbled  hatreds  of 
the  Thirty  Years'  War  began  to  sweep  across  it  from  the 
four  points  of  the  compass. 

The  Black  Death  and  the  famine  that  followed  it  re- 
duced the  population  from  four  thousand  to  two  thousand 
when  peace  seemed  at  hand.  The  wandering  Boufflers 
appeared  with  his  well-nigh  worn-out  artillery,  in  1678, 
and  treated  the  terrorized  city  to  a  three-day  bombard- 
ment. He  pierced  the  outer  cincture  and  reached  the 
town  proper.  But  here,  for  the  first  time  in  his  barn- 
storming tour  of  the  duchy  he  found  masonry  that  was  a 
match  for  gunpowder.  The  best  he  could  get  out  of  his 
noisy  pyrotechnics  was  a  truce  with  the  local  representa- 
tive of  William  Henry  of  Nassau.  He  withdrew  his 
mob  of  wreckers  to  the  south,  leaving  the  castle  battered 
but  firm. 

286 


VIANDEN 

A  quarter  of  a  century  later  a  French  captain,  LaCroix, 
came  with  a  cavalry  troop  to  begin  an  occupation  that 
lasted  ten  years.  "Lacroix"  is  a  noun  in  the  Viennese 
vocabulary  to-day, — a  term  for  otherwise  indescribable 
brutality.  LaCroix  went  and  the  sansculottes  came, — 
five  thousand  of  them  who  camped  in  the  town  ten  days 
and  left  it  looking  like  a  wheat-held  after  a  plague  of 
locusts.  It  was  an  unimportant  village  during  the  ter- 
rible period  when  the  grand  duchy  was  a  province  of  revo- 
lutionary France.  Napoleon  gave  it  with  the  rest  of  the 
Netherlands  to  Louis  Bonaparte,  who  later  returned  it  to 
him.  It  was  then  tendered  as  a  present  to  the  Baron  de 
Marbceuf.  The  baron  died  in  the  Russian  campaign, 
leaving  no  issue,  and  the  castle  was  on  the  market  once 
more.  The  Council  of  Vienna  made  it  the  joint  property 
of  Holland  and  Prussia,  but  the  rise  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Holland  in  1815  brought  it  with  the  sovereignty  of  the 
duchy  to  William  I,  Prince  of  Orange-Nassau-Vianden. 

Here  is  marked  the  stronghold's  ignominious  end.  The 
estate  had  come  back  to  one  who  by  blood  and  inheritance 
was  entitled  to  it  and  should  have  taken  some  pride  in 
its  possession.  But  there  was  little  sentiment  about  VV^il- 
liam.  Vianden  the  glorious,  still  mighty  and  defiant  on 
its  crag  after  a  thousand  years  of  battering,  was  sold  for 
twelve  hundred  dollars  to  Wencelas  Coster,  a  junkman, 
who  proceeded  to  do  what  Bouiilers  had  despaired  of 
doing.    He  systematically  ripped  it  apart. 

287 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

It  is  said  that  the  purchase  of  the  schloss  was  a  good 
business  venture.  Coster  made  four  hundred  per  cent, 
on  his  investment,  in  the  sale  of  the  brass  door-knobs,  the 
great  weathered  beams,  the  carved  panels,  the  lead  roof- 
ing, the  bronze  chandeliers,  the  leather  wall  coverings, 
and  the  precious  iron  nails  of  the  floors.  But  when  he 
had  finished  this  commercial  vandalism,  the  pride  of 
Vianden  had  gone  down  into  the  dust  forever.  Thirty 
years  later  Prince  Henry  of  the  Netherlands  repurchased 
the  place,  paying  a  higher  price  for  the  ruin  than  the  wily 
Coster  had  paid  for  the  building  intact. 

Many  of  the  scattered  treasures  of  the  castle  have  since 
been  gathered  by  the  rulers  of  Luxemburg  and  placed  in 
the  old  church  of  the  Trinitarians,  among  them  the  tomb- 
stone of  Henry  of  Nassau. 

Vianden's  marvels  of  legend  are  not  confined  to  the 
grim  bones  of  the  fallen  schloss. 

In  the  wood  north  of  the  town,  an  enchanted  forest 
once  sacred  to  Freya  the  mother  of  Thor,  wanders  the 
shade  of  Bertha,  mother  of  the  first  Count  of  Vianden. 
She  comes  back  to  earth,  as  a  good  ghost  should,  in  the 
habiliments  of  the  grave,  but  she  sometimes  brings  with 
her  a  chariot  drawn  by  four  white  horses.  And,  like  the 
banshee  of  Ireland,  she  never  appears  but  to  summon  a 
member  of  her  family  to  death. 

Not  quite  so  serious  is  the  tenure  of  another  patch  of 

288 


THE    DOUBLE    CHAPEL 

The  chapel  in  Vianden  was  built  to  permit  the  serfs  and  prisoners  to  attend  ser^Hces  by 

assembling  at  the  bottom  of  an  open  court  while  the  nobility  prayed  in  an 

upper  gallery.     The  picture  shows  the  lower  portion 


K J  MAINS    OF    UPPER    FLOOR 
Fireplace  clinging  to  wrecked  wall  of  Salle  des  Chevaliers 

VIAXDEX 


VIANDEN 

magic  forest  near  Bettel  by  the  Lemennchen,  a  pixy  with 
a  zest  for  practical  jokes. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  sprite  to  lead  pedestrians  astray 
in  the  wood  after  nightfall,  usually  guiding  them  to  a 
gully  or  a  precipice  where  a  sharp  fall  and  bruises  con- 
vince them  of  the  danger  of  taking  the  advice  of 
strangers. 

"Step  right  this  way,"  he  sings  out.  "Here  is  the  road, 
good  sir.  Look  out  for  the  hole  ahead  of  you.  Turn  this 
way." 

And  woe  to  the  peasant  who  hears  him ! 

One  Vianden  farmer  whose  case  is  said  to  be  a  matter 
of  recent  record  was  coming  home  from  a  wedding-party, 
full  of  sentiment  and  vin  du  pays,  when  he  heard  the 
call  of  the  pixy. 

"Right  this  way,  sir  I    Here  is  the  road." 

"I  know  the  road  as  well  as  you  do,"  retorted  the  peas- 
ant.    "Hold  your  tongue." 

By  way  of  answer  the  sprite  leaped  out  and  struck  the 
farmer  on  the  head  with  his  open  hand.  The  poor  man 
was  found  in  the  road  unconscious  the  next  morning.  He 
recovered.  But  the  mark  of  the  sprite's  displeasure  was 
on  him  to  the  end  of  his  days, — five  bald  spots  atop  his 
head  where  the  Lemennchen's  fingers  had  touched  him. 

Students  of  the  black  art  were  once  more  numerous  in 
Vianden  than  they  are  to-day.  Proof  of  their  existence 
may  be  seen  in  the  sorcerers'  hole  in  the  castle  dungeons. 

289 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

But  they  fared  badly,  what  with  the  determination  of  the 
suzerains  to  crush  them,  and  the  general  knowledge  of 
devices  to  render  their  enchantments  futile. 

A  cloth-mill,  established  in  the  ancient  abbey  of  the 
Trinitarians  after  the  suppression  of  the  order  by  Joseph 
II,  was  once  one  of  the  most  promising  factories  in  the 
Netherlands.  It  was  rapidly  bringing  Vianden  into  com- 
mercial prominence  when  some  stray  ghosts  seized  upon 
it  as  a  haunting-ground. 

Looms  persisted  in  dancing  about  the  weaving-rooms, 
shuttles  took  to  flying  out  at  the  windows  for  no  reason 
at  all,  the  proprietor's  dinner  refused  to  remain  within 
his  reach  at  his  family  table,  the  fires  burned  with  a  cold 
flame,  and  the  flax  in  the  hands  of  the  spinners  burned 
like  fire. 

The  owner  fired  a  gun,  loaded  with  silver  bullets,  in 
the  place,  but  his  aim  must  have  been  bad,  for  this  failed 
to  lay  the  ghost.  He  substituted  old  horseshoe  nails  for 
silver  bullets  in  his  fowling-piece — an  effective  substi- 
tute and  much  cheaper — sprinkled  ashes  on  the  floor,  and 
waited. 

His  vigilance  was  rewarded.  The  morning  light,  shin- 
ing through  the  Gothic  windows  of  the  old  abbey,  showed 
footprints  on  the  ash-strewn  floor,  leading  to  an  unused 
clock.  He  brought  his  gun  close  to  the  clock  and  fired, 
shattering  the  cabinet,  most  of  a  loom,  and  all  the  pot- 
tery on  a  shelf  behind  it. 

290 


VIANDEN 

But  through  the  splinters  of  the  smashed  clock  fell  the 
nail-riddled  body  of  a  man.  It  was  a  discharged  servant 
who  had  invoked  the  black  art  by  way  of  revenge. 

He  was  coffined  in  a  dyer's  caldron — the  best  possible 
casket  for  a  witch — and  buried  in  the  Defendeldt  marsh, 
a  place  where,  according  to  the  natives,  the  devil  would 
not  have  to  come  far  in  search  of  him. 

It  is  well  to  record  here  the  ingenuity  of  a  lowly 
burgher  who  outwitted  the  evil  one  and  saved  his  child 
from  a  painful  death. 

This  burgher  was  a  good  man  but  unfortunate.  One 
after  another  his  children  fell  victims  to  a  demon  who 
rocked  them  to  death  as  they  lay  asleep  in  their  cradles. 
Eleven  children  died  in  this  fashion,  much  to  the  puzzle- 
ment of  the  learned  doctors  of  the  town,  who  tried  every 
known  means  of  driving  away  the  demon,  without 
success. 

A  twelfth  child  was  born  to  the  burgher  and  his  wife 
and  for  two  whole  nights  they  sat  up  trying  to  devise 
some  means  of  preventing  the  babe  from  succumbing  to 
the  fate  that  had  come  to  his  brothers  and  sisters.  Then 
the  good  man  had  a  happy  inspiration.  He  sawed  off  the 
rockers  of  the  cradle  and  nailed  its  square  base  to  the 
floor. 

The  demon  came,  attempted  to  rock  the  cradle,  failed 
to  move  it,  howled  in  chagrin,  and  fled  to  the  wooded 

291 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

hills.    Not  once  since  has  any  Vianden  child  been  rocked 
to  death. 

The  lure  of  buried  treasure  has  brought  more  than  one 
adventurer  to  this  beauty  spot  of  the  Our.  Hoary  tradi- 
tion has  it  that  near  Hun's  rock,  some  five  hundred  feet 
above  the  river,  not  far  from  the  spot  where  Attila 
camped  with  his  hordes  while  waiting  to  strike  down  into 
France,  is  a  chest  of  gold.  It  was  buried  by  the  Austrians 
during  an  argument  between  them  and  the  Netherlands 
and  was  placed  nine  feet  deep  under  the  spot  which  the 
shadow  of  a  tall  lime-tree  reached  at  high  noon.  Appar- 
ently all  that  one  has  to  do  to  obtain  the  treasure  is  to 
dig  for  it.  But  there  is  a  quick  turn  to  the  story :  the  tree 
that  now  crowns  the  cliff  is  not  the  one  which  guided  the 
Austrians  in  the  burial  of  their  military  chest.  So  the 
treasure  probably  will  remain  far  from  human  hands 
until  some  enterprising  gold-seeker  comes  looking  for  it 
wdth  a  steam-shovel. 

North  from  Vianden,  on  the  Our  and  well  up  in  the 
craggy  precipice  on  the  Prussian  side  of  the  river,  is  all 
that  Boufflers  left  to  the  world  of  the  castle  of  Falken- 
stein,  whose  principal  overlord  still  sits  at  the  dice  table 
in  Siegfroid's  dungeons. 

A  proud  castle  is  Falkenstein,  standing  aloof  from  the 
smelly  little  town  at  the  base  of  its  cliff  like  a  lady  hold- 
ing up  her  skirts  for  fear  of  contamination  from  the  filth 
about  her  feet. 

292 


VIANDEN 

The  affairs  of  Satan  and  those  of  the  lords  of  Falken- 
stein  seem  to  have  been  eternally  intermingling.  The 
memory  of  the  covetous  graf  and  the  unending  dice  game 
would  be  sufficient  proof  of  this.  But  there  is  another 
legend  a  bit  more  gruesome  illustrative  of  the  same  dread 
relationship. 

Although  it  is  related  in  Bivels  and  Bauler,  the  twin 
towns  beneath  the  castle  rock, — with  all  the  emphasis 
usually  accorded  to  a  story  locally  respected, — this  nar- 
rative of  the  black  art  is  also  accredited  in  other  parts  of 
the  Ardennes.  With  suitable  alterations  in  cast  and 
locale  it  appears  at  least  four  times  in  the  Belgian  hills  to 
the  west  and  each  narrator  will  take  a  solemn  oath  that 
his  story  alone  has  the  merit  of  authenticity. 

In  the  days  when  the  founders  of  the  house  of  Vianden 
were  piling  new  masonry  upon  the  rocky  foundations  left 
by  the  Romans, — so  the  legend  of  the  Our  is  told, — the 
Knights  of  Falcon's  Rock  were  already  ensconced  in  a 
strong  chateau.  Third  of  the  line  was  Philip,  whose 
daughter  Euphrosine  has  been  rated  by  local  critics  the 
most  beautiful  woman  of  all  time. 

Some  of  them  may  know  whereof  they  speak,  for 
Euphrosine,  like  other  ladies  of  her  time,  uses  her  tomb 
only  as  a  daylight  shelter.  By  nights  she  wanders  among 
the  fir-trees  about  the  ruins,  wailing  a  love-song  and  star- 
ing at  her  hands,  which  drip  with  blood.    Her  plaintive 

293 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

lyric  blends  with  the  clatter  of  ghostly  hoofs  upon  the 
stone  road. 

Euphrosine  was  born  to  nurse  an  inherited  hatred  for 
the  house  of  Stolzemburg,  whose  castle  was  only  a  few 
kilometers  to  the  north.  The  first  Falkenstein  had  had 
words  with  the  first  Stolzemburg  and  had  beheaded  him. 
Several  times  afterward  other  Stolzemburg  warriors  had 
sought  revenge  and  so  their  name  became  anathema  in 
the  family  of  the  knights  who  dwelt  upon  the  Falcon 
rock. 

Euphrosine  grew  to  womanhood  and  was  espoused  to 
the  Count  Conon,  whom  she  loved  only  indifferently. 
The  whole  Rhineland  made  merry  at  her  betrothal-feast. 

During  the  festivities  the  knights  and  ladies  of  the 
party  rode  out  to  a  boar-hunt.  Euphrosine  lost  her 
companions  in  the  dense  woods  and  was  seeking  her  way 
back  to  the  castle  when  her  horse  became  unman- 
ageable and  dashed  toward  the  cliff  that  drops  down 
to  the  Our.  Death  was  very  close  to  her  when  a 
stranger  rode  out  of  the  shrubbery  and  by  a  bit  of  dex- 
terous horsemanship  came  alongside  her  just  in  time  to 
clasp  her  about  the  waist  as  her  maddened  palfrey  leaped 
over  the  precipice. 

Euphrosine  had  opportunity  to  study  her  rescuer  as  he 
escorted  her  back  to  the  castle  and  she  found  that  he  was 
the  fairy  prince  of  whom  she  had  dreamed  while  listening 
apathetically  to  the  love-protestations  of  Conon,     Both 

294 


VIANDEN 

knight  and  maid  had  become  a  bit  self-conscious  as  they 
neared  the  end  of  her  journey.  Youth  was  calling  to 
youth. 

Then,  all  too  late  to  steel  herself  against  the  prompt- 
ings of  her  heart,  Euphrosine  learned  the  stranger's  name. 
He  was  Count  Robert  of  the  hated  house  of  Stolzemburg, 
her  father's  enemy. 

The  affair  had  progressed  too  far,  however,  to  be 
stopped  by  this  lamentable  discovery.  Euphrosine  met 
the  brave  rider  many  times  after  that,  in  the  woods  be- 
tween their  domains,  and  sought  by  every  art  to  delay 
her  marriage  with  Conon. 

But  parental  will  was  a  law  that  could  not  be  scorned. 
After  five  postponements  of  the  wedding  Philip  declared 
that  he  and  his  guests  would  submit  to  her  whims  no 
longer.    He  set  the  following  day  for  the  ceremony. 

So  came  the  wedding  eve.  Euphrosine,  in  tears, 
walked  out  beyond  the  drawbridge  to  take  what  enjoy- 
ment she  could  out  of  her  last  night  of  freedom.  Then 
suddenly  a  horseman  rode  out  of  the  gloom  and  snatched 
her  up  across  the  saddle  before  him.  She  saw  the  face  of 
Robert  and  swooned  with  joy. 

Down  the  cliff  road  they  swept  like  the  wind,  but  not 
before  the  guards  at  the  bridge  had  noticed  the  abduction 
and  spread  the  alarm.  Hoof-beats  clattered  close  behind 
them.  Conon  was  distanced,  but  one  tall  figure,  sitting 
his  black  stallion  like  a  centaur,  slowly  gained  upon  them. 

295 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

They  reached  the  foot  of  the  precipice  and  had  barely 
time  to  embark  in  a  small  boat  awaiting  them  at  the  end 
of  the  road,  when  the  pursuing  rider  leaped  from  his 
horse  and  threw  himself  upon  them. 

Robert  pressed  into  the  hand  of  his  stolen  love  a  dagger 
and  Euphrosine  struck.  The  moon  paled  and  there  was 
a  flash  of  light  and  the  stunned  girl  saw  the  tall  man 
sinking  in  death  with  her  dagger  in  his  heart.  Her  father  I 

The  Count  of  Stolzemburg  had  shoved  off  and  the  boat 
was  in  midstream  before  she  could  tear  her  eyes  from  the 
horrible  sight  ashore  to  look  at  him.  As  she  did  so  he 
laughed  at  her  and  seized  her  in  his  arms.  The  face  of 
Robert  dissolved  and  she  found  herself  gazing  into  the 
fire-scarred  countenance  of  the  All  Evil. 

"Parricide  I"  he  shrieked.  "You  have  made  yourself 
mine."    The  boat  sank  and  the  waves  closed  over  them. 

Remnants  of  three  lordly  stone  towers  are  all  that 
remains  of  Stolzemburg.  The  spot  is  worth  a  visit  if 
only  through  its  connection  with  the  grisly  story  of  Count 
Robert,  but  it  presents  no  spectacular  features  to  one  who 
has  viewed  Vianden. 

It  is  said  that  the  last  descendant  of  the  line  of  Stol- 
zemburg died  only  recently — a  swineherd,  tending  his 
pigs  in  the  shadows  of  the  feudal  palace  that  had  been 
the  abode  of  his  powerful  ancestors. 

But  why  dwell  upon  that?  Wilhelm  II  chops  wood 
at  Amerongen  and  the  last  male  descendant  of  the  Polish 

296 


VIANDEN 

kings  was  recently  a  member  of  the  San  Antonio  police 
force. 

Between  Bivels  and  Vianden  the  pretty  little  shrine  of 
Bildchen  shows  a  dainty  white  spire  amid  masses  of 
greenery  on  the  steep  hillside.  Seven  little  altars,  each 
representative  of  an  episode  in  the  life  of  Christ,  mark 
the  way  to  it  and  at  the  top  of  the  winding  path  a  spring 
with  marvelous  powers  bubbles  up  out  of  the  rock.  Bild- 
chen has  a  miraculous  history. 

The  story  is  that  centuries  ago  two  boys  found  a  little 
oaken  statue  of  the  Blessed  Lady.  They  threw  it  unno- 
ticed upon  their  fire  with  other  billets  of  wood.  But  their 
attention  was  attracted  to  it  a  moment  later  when  they 
discovered  that  the  flames  refused  to  attack  it.  The  little 
statue  became  dazzling  white  and  the  boys  ran  back  to 
Vianden  in  fright. 

The  next  day  they  returned  with  a  cure,  to  discover 
that  the  image  had  disappeared  from  the  ashes  of  the  fire 
and  was  back  in  the  branches  of  the  oak-tree  where  they 
had  first  found  it.  The  statue  was  taken  to  the  Vianden 
church  several  times  after  that,  but  always  would  travel 
back  to  the  oak  on  the  hill.  It  was  allowed  to  remain 
there,  the  object  of  much  veneration  until  the  oak  died, 
after  which  it  was  placed  in  the  Bildchen  shrine,  specially 
constructed  to  house  it. 

The  tiny  chapel  is  now  the  scene  of  a  great  pilgrimage 
once  a  year.     On  the  Sunday  before  the  Feast  of  the 

297 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Assumption  the  miraculous  statue  is  carried  to  the  Vian- 
den  church  in  stately  procession.  It  is  kept  there  until 
the  Sunday  within  the  octave  of  the  feast  and  is  carried 
back  with  a  ceremonial  no  less  impressive. 

The  waters  of  Bildchen  have  come  to  be  looked  upon 
as  a  miraculous  aid  for  the  blind.  Throughout  the  year 
pilgrims  come  here  to  wash  weakened  eyes  in  the 
spring,  which  phase  of  the  chapel's  popularity  is  reflected 
in  the  tablet  of  dedication  above  the  door:  proper 
LUMEN  Ci^cis;  PELLE  MALA  NOSTRA  (Grant  light  to  the 
blind  and  banish  our  ills) . 

Religion  is  a  living  thing  in  Vianden.  God  walks 
very  close  to  these  children  of  the  hills.  They  have  been 
tried  in  the  acid  of  time  and  found  pure  gold. 


2q8 


CHAPTER  XVII 
DAHNEN 


The  Wise  Men  of  Gotham 

Though  thou  shouldest  bray 
a  fool  in  a  mortar  .  .  .  yet 
will  not  his  foolishness  de- 
part from  him. 

— Proverbs,     xxvii.  22. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

DAHNEN 

DAHNEN,  which  lies  on  the  Prussian  side  of  the 
Our  north  of  Vianden,  is  worth  a  visit.  Not 
for  any  architectural  marvels !  Nor  for  ruins. 
The  only  thing  in  ruins  in  the  town  is  its  reputation.  As 
for  legends,  there  are  plenty  about,  but  not  in  Dahnen. 
Though  other  villages  in  the  Ardennes  may  be  proudly 
concerned  over  an  illustrious  past,  Dahnen  would  eat  of 
the  lotus  flower  and  forget.  One  can  always  start  the 
Prussian  equivalent  of  a  riot  in  these  parts  by  asking 
questions. 

As  for  Dahnen's  ghosts,  if  they  ever  left  their  graves  at 
all,  they  probably  lost  their  way  in  returning  and  have 
crowded  into  the  already  over-tenanted  tombs  of  Ettel- 
bruck  or  Diekirch  and  are  registering  complaints  about 
the  accommodations. 

Yet  the  town  merits  notice  as  the  birthplace  of  a  great 
and  peculiar  race.  As  the  shrine  of  intellectual  novelty 
it  is  without  parallel  in  the  duchy.  From  here  came  the 
wise  men  of  Gotham,  Clever  Elsa,  Handy  Andy,  and  all 
the  other  sinister-sided  heroes  and  heroines  of  history. 

Do  you  remember  the  tale  of  the  man  who  stored  his 

301 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

treasure  in  his  house  as  he  prepared  to  start  out  upon  a 
long  journey  and  then  took  the  door  of  the  building  with 
him  so  that  no  one  could  pick  the  lock*?  He  came  from 
Dahnen,  was  probably  one  of  its  most  respected  citizens. 

Dahnen  supposedly  gets  its  name  from  the  Danes  who 
settled  there  after  some  predatory  visit  to  the  Ardennes. 
To  say  that  the  ancestry  of  the  inhabitants  was  respon- 
sible for  the  ancient  and  honorable  reputation  of  the  town 
might  be  going  a  bit  too  far. 

The  stories  of  Dahnen  are  many  and  varied  and  are 
told  principally  in  Ettelbruck.  In  justice  to  the  present 
generation  of  the  Dahnenites,  it  must  be  said  that  they 
seem  to  have  lost  the  ancestral  knack  for  making  copy. 
They  attend  to  their  farming  and  live  their  modest  lives 
much  as  do  the  other  burghers  of  the  valley.  Most  of 
them  can  make  change  accurately  in  the  combined 
German-French-Belgian-Luxembourgeois  currency  of  the 
community,  and  no  one  has  recently  purchased  gold 
bricks,  rescued  sick  engineers,  tried  to  guess  which  shell 
the  little  pea  was  under,  or  otherwise  contributed  to  the 
gaiety  of  nations. 

In  the  olden  days,  however,  if  Ettelbruck  may  be 
credited,  life  in  Dahnen  was  more  complicated. 

They  tell  the  story  of  the  farmer  whose  cow  was  not 
thriving  on  the  sun-tanned  grasses  of  the  meadow. 

The  farmer  was  at  a  loss  for  a  remedy  when  he  dis- 
covered that  the  milk  fountains  of  the  cow  were  drying 

302 


DAHNEN 

up.  He  realized  that  she  must  have  green  fodder  at 
once,  but  could  find  none  to  give  to  her.  Then  he  noticed 
the  weeds  growing  luxuriantly  on  the  inside  of  the  well. 

Here,  obviously,  was  a  grazing-ground  that  offered 
possibilities  innumerable.  The  only  thing  that  made  it 
impracticable  as  a  pasture  was  the  cow's  inability  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  straight  sides. 

The  peasant  retired  to  his  cottage  door-step  and  sat 
down  with  his  pipe,  to  ponder  on  the  problem.  If  the 
cow  could  be  made  to  sprout  wings,  he  thought,  it  would 
be  simple  enough.  Similarly,  a  house-fly  and  a  cow,  if 
they  could  be  cross-bred,  might  be  expected  to  produce  a 
new  species  of  cows  with  adhesive  feet.  The  latter  idea 
appealed  to  him  from  a  purely  scientific  point  of  view. 
Undoubtedly  the  results  of  such  experimentation  would 
bring  fame,  even  now,  to  one  who  brought  it  to  a  satisfac- 
tory finish.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  more  noble 
sight  than  cows  climbing  up  and  down  walls,  browsing  on 
thatched  roofs,  or  nipping  rosebuds  from  the  trellises. 

There  was  this  difficulty,  however:  the  experiment 
would  take  too  much  time.  Before  it  could  be  perfected 
the  weeds  in  the  well  would  have  withered  and  the  cow 
would  have  gone  dry.  Some  other  expedient  must  be 
devised. 

The  poor  peasant  was  at  his  wits'  end  when  the  great 
idea  came  to  him.  He  realized  that,  as  natural  wall- 
climbing  aids  could  not  be  given  the  cow,  artificial  means 

303 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

must  be  employed.  And  as,  after  all,  simple  methods  are 
always  the  best,  he  tied  a  rope  around  the  cow's  neck  and 
lowered  her  into  the  well. 

Such  an  ingenious  plan  was  certain  to  succeed.  The 
cow's  eyes  bulged  with  astonishment  at  the  wealth  of 
greenery  on  the  walls  of  the  pit.  She  gurgled  gleefully 
and  kicked  in  ecstasy.  Her  tongue  protruded  to  its  full 
length  and  wa\ed  up  and  down  like  a  red  flag. 

The  inventor  at  the  parapet  of  the  well  was  highly 
pleased. 

"She  smells  the  fresh  weeds,"  he  cried.  "Already  she 
sticks  out  her  tongue  for  the  banquet." 

But  the  cow  deceived  him.  She  steadfastly  refused  to 
consume  any  of  the  luscious  verdure  and  that  night  was 
dressed  beef. 

Antiquarians  will  see  in  this  story  a  relationship  to  the 
tale  of  the  man  who  taught  his  cow  to  fast.  'T  was  a 
noble  plan,"  he  declared.  "But  when  I  had  her  teached 
and  all,  she  died." 

Of  little  less  scientific  import  than  the  problem  of 
perpendicular  grazing,  as  faced  by  the  cow-owner,  was 
the  mysterious  architectural  enigma  encountered  by  a 
Dahnen  house-builder  of  the  same  period. 

This  man,  a  skilled  stone-mason,  constructed  a  two- 
story  cottage  that  was  the  wonder  of  the  neighborhood. 
Nowhere  else  in  the  Ardennes  might  be  found  a  building 
with  walls  so  smooth  and  square  and  regular.     From 

304 


ROMAN    OVENS 


ROMAN    KITCHENS 

VIANDEN 

"It  is  said  that  the  foundations  of  Vianden  were  built  by  the  Romans  in  the  first  century' 


DAHNEN 

miles  around  came  architectural  critics  to  examine  the 
work  and  comment  upon  it.  All  were  pleased  with  its 
novelty  of  line. 

The  construction  of  the  house  took  a  long  time,  for 
the  Dahnen  mason  was  a  careful  soul,  and  he  intended 
that  his  home  should  be  able  to  withstand  all  the  destruc- 
tive influences  of  wind  and  weather.  But  eventually  the 
last  bit  of  thatch  was  bound  to  the  roof-tree.  The  builder 
cemented  the  last  stone  on  the  edge  of  the  great  chimney 
and  scampered  down  his  ladder. 

Then  came  his  problem.  The  house  was  marvelous  in 
every  way,  but  he  could  n't  get  into  it. 

He  walked  around  it  several  times,  examined  it  care- 
fully, and  sat  down  on  his  work-bench  to  review  step  by 
step  the  process  of  building,  to  determine  what  might  be 
this  unseen  barrier  to  his  entrance.  The  puzzle  appeared 
unsolvable. 

In  a  quandary  he  called  his  neighbors  to  a  conference. 
They  too  examined  the  house,  and  they  too  sat  down  and 
pondered.  And  for  all  their  pondering  they  had  no  better 
success. 

At  that  time  the  church  in  Dahnen  was  without  a  pas- 
tor, but  the  spiritual  needs  of  the  community  were  under 
the  administration  of  a  cure  in  the  village  to  the  north. 
It  was  known  that  he  was  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  consider- 
able practical  experience,  so  it  was  decided  to  have  him 
come  over  and  diagnose  the  ills  of  the  new  house. 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Accordingly,  a  messenger  was  sent  for  him.  He  came 
to  Dahnen  and  there  was  displayed  forcibly  the  value  of 
an  education.  He  took  one  look  at  the  house  and  turned 
to  the  builder. 

"I  see  what  the  trouble  is,"  he  declared  with  a  smile. 
"It  probably  can  be  remedied.  You  have  forgotten  to 
put  in  a  door." 

A  great  many  of  the  Dahnenites  saw  without  difficulty 
what  the  trouble  was,  now  that  it  had  been  pointed  out 
to  them,  but  there  were  others  who  to  their  dying  days 
could  never  get  clear  in  their  minds  why  the  mason  had 
not  been  able  to  walk  right  into  the  house  that  he  had 
just  built,  door  or  no  door. 

The  most  interesting  bit  of  lore  in  which  the  com- 
munity figures  is  the  story  of  how  the  populace  enlarged 
the  church. 

How  it  came  to  be  decided  that  the  church  was  too 
small  is  not  a  matter  of  record;  for  it  is  said  there  was 
always  plenty  of  room  in  the  structure  for  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  the  village.  Some  one,  apparently, 
had  gone  abroad  and  had  returned  to  Dahnen  with 
enlarged  ideas.  He  had  been  to  the  cities  and  had  dis- 
covered this  truism, — that  where  there  are  big  cathedrals 
there  are  big  towns.    The  conclusion  was  obvious. 

The  people  of  Dahnen,  with  a  great  show  of  civic 
pride,  met  in  the  old  church  to  consider  ways  and  means 
for  increasing  its  capacity. 

306 


DAHNEN 

"Tear  it  down  and  build  it  larger,"  suggested  Simon 
Heller,  the  town  fool.    He  was  laughed  to  scorn. 

"Pour  water  on  it  and  let  it  swell,"  suggested  Herr 
Zimmermann,  a  graybeard  and  philosopher,  whose  opin- 
ions were  highly  respected  in  Dahnen. 

His  plan,  being  more  sensible,  was  put  to  debate,  and 
the  argument  continued  for  several  hours  before  it  was 
definitely  decided  that  it  would  take  too  long  to  haul  the 
water. 

Herr  Molitor  was  the  next  to  contribute  a  word  of 
advice.  It  was  his  idea  that  the  stretching  of  the  church 
might  be  accomplished  easily  if  all  the  men  of  the  village 
were  to  station  themselves  inside  the  church  and  push  the 
walls  outward. 

The  simplicity  of  this  plan  was  apparent  at  once.  The 
good  men  voiced  scarcely  a  single  objection  but  took  their 
places  along  the  walls  and  pushed. 

But  for  some  unaccountable  reason  this  process  was  n't 
exactly  a  success.  Either  the  men  were  too  weak  or  the 
walls  were  too  strong,  to  paraphrase  from  "Alice  in  Won- 
derland."   The  church  did  n't  seem  to  expand  a  bit. 

There  would  have  been  more  discussion  and  the  trial 
of  a  new  method,  had  not  Herr  Molitor  risen  to  the  occa- 
sion with  the  genius  ihat  gave  him  first  rank  among  the 
village  sages. 

"No  wonder  the  church  does  not  enlarge,"  he  declared. 
*lt  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the  walls  will  move  when 

307 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

they  have  nothing  to  roll  on.  I  thought  at  first  that  we 
might  be  strong  enough  to  push  them  out  the  proper 
distance  without  rollers.    But  that  is  impossible. 

"Now,  if  each  of  you  will  go  home  and  get  a  sack  of 
peas  and  spread  these  peas  on  cloths  about  the  walls,  you 
will  find  that  the  pressure  from  the  inside  will  bring  the 
desired  results  quickly  and  we  shall  have  our  fine,  large 
church." 

The  explanation  was  so  well  grounded  that  even  the 
skeptics  of  the  parish  did  not  dare  to  advance  an  argu- 
ment against  it.  All  the  people  of  Dahnen  knew  that 
vehicles  with  wheels  could  be  pulled  more  easily  than 
vehicles  without  wheels.  Hence  it  w^as  apparent  that 
rollers  would  simplify  the  task  of  public  improvement 
now  occupying  their  attention. 

So  they  went  home  and  got  the  peas. 
They  had  spread  them  as  directed  and  had  retired  to 
the  church  to  resume  their  pushing,  when  a  farmer  from 
an  adjoining  village  came  through  Dahnen  in  a  cart.  He 
took  one  look  at  the  churchyard  and  stopped  his  horse  in 
surprise. 

"Can  my  eyes  be  deceiving  me  or  has  it  been  raining 
peas!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  am  right.  Heaven  is  sending 
manna  to  Dahnen  and  the  fools  are  not  here  to  take 
advantage  of  their  luck." 

He  was  not  a  man  to  overlook  opportunity.  In  a  very 
few  minutes  he  had  scooped  up  all  the  peas  in  sight,  had 

308 


DAHNEN 

deposited  them  in  his  cart,  and  had  vanished  over  the 
hill,  warbling  spring  songs  in  a  dolorous  voice  and  a  very 
complicated  dialect.  He  was  several  kilometers  distant 
when  the  pushers  inside  the  church  decided  to  step  outside 
to  see  how  the  work  was  progressing. 

They  had  no  sooner  assembled  in  the  churchyard  than 
they  began  to  berate  Herr  Molitor. 

They  pointed  in  sorrow  to  the  place  where  the  ball- 
bearing peas  had  been  spread  and  called  upon  him  to 
explain  whither  they  had  vanished. 

His  position  in  the  community  was  precarious  for  a 
moment,  but  his  brain  saved  him.  He  gave  the  situation 
ponderous  thought  and  with  an  uplifted  hand  stilled  the 
tumult. 

"Be  quiet,  dunces,"  he  advised.  "Can  you  not  see  that 
you  have  pushed  the  walls  of  the  church  out  without 
noticing  it?  So  great  was  the  ease  with  which  you  accom- 
plished this  task  that  you  never  realized  that  you  were 
working.  The  walls  have  rolled  out  as  I  promised  they 
would,  and  now  the  peas  that  you  spread  here  are  covered 
by  the  church.    That  is  as  it  should  be." 

Every  one  admitted  that  and  apologized  to  Herr 
Molitor.  A  few  sacks  of  peas  were  a  small  enough  price 
to  pay  for  the  enlarging  of  the  church. 

The  present  generation  in  Dahnen  does  not  deserve 
the  visitation  of  the  sins  of  its  fathers.    The  people  are 

309 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

good-natured  and  quiet.  They  support  a  good  school  and 
are  trying  to  live  down  their  Ettelbruck  reputation ;  but 
the  bad  name  clings.  Let  even  a  philosopher  don  the  cap 
and  bells  but  once  and  he  is  damned  forever. 


310 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
ECHTERNACH 


Where  Thousands  Dance  for  the  Glory  of  God 

A   motion   and   a   spirit,   that   impels 
All  thinking  things  .  .  . 
And  rolls  through  all  things. 

— Wordsworth. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


ECHTERNACH 


WHERE  the  grand-ducal  Ardennes  tumble  in 
rocky  rebellion  out  of  the  Little  Switzerland 
and  dip  down  to  the  Sure,  is  Echternach,  gray 
little  town  of  haunting  memories. 

No  bleaching  bones  of  chateau  fortresses  attract  one 
to  Echternach.  Its  architectural  marvels  are  few  and  its 
peaceful  scenic  setting  a  bit  disappointing  after  the 
tumultuous  grandeur  of  the  heaving  highlands  to  the 
west.  But  Echternach  is  an  enchanted  city,  medieval 
still,  despite  the  encroachments  of  railroads  and  electric 
lights,  a  place  of  cherished  tradition  and  splendid  history. 

Here  the  sainted  Willibrord,  apostle  to  the  Ardennes, 
planted  his  cross  and  founded  a  dynasty  of  religious 
whose  work  in  the  humanization  and  education  of  the 
Rhineland  continued  for  eleven  hundred  years.  The 
torch  which  he  set  ablaze  was  a  beacon  light  of  learning 
in  the  valley  of  the  Moselle  and  the  gorges  of  Luxem- 
burg, while  seventy-one  abbots  succeeded  one  another 
"spreading  the  gospel  and  teaching  agriculture  and  good 
manners,"  as  Bertholet  put  it,  and  bringing  to  the 
Ardennes  glories  of  peaceful  accomplishment  no  less  than 

313 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

those  that  followed  the  brave  banners  of  the  knights  back 
from  the  crusades. 

The  light  was  extinguished  by  the  sansculottes,  who 
took  the  dust  from  Willibrord's  tomb  and  scattered  it  to 
the  four  winds.  Since  that  time  Echternach  has  ceased 
to  figure  as  an  outpost  of  the  church.  Its  abbey  has  lost 
the  power  that  accrued  to  it  in  the  days  of  its  grandeur. 
Its  sacred  buildings  have  been  put  to  utilitarian  uses. 
Its  once-famous  hospice  has  dwindled  in  size  and  useful- 
ness. All  that  remains  to  it  is  tradition.  But  what 
tradition  I 

The  ghosts  that  walk  in  Echternach  are  gentle  ghosts, 
the  spirits  of  martyrs,  the  wraiths  of  princes  who  sacri- 
ficed fame  and  title  to  aid  those  serfs  upon  whose  backs 
their  family  fortunes  had  been  builded,  the  souls  of 
philosophers  who  spread  the  light  of  a  "liberty,  frater- 
nity, and  equality"  far  nobler  and  more  far-reaching  in 
its  ultimate  effects  than  the  blood-stained  democracy  of 
the  French  Terror. 

A  strange  feudalism  of  the  cross  was  that  of  the  early 
Echternach.  The  district  was  ceded  to  Willibrord  in 
698  by  the  Princess  Irmine,  daughter  of  King  Dagobert 
II  of  the  Franks,  and  abbess  of  the  convent  at  Euren  near 
Treves.  At  that  time  the  town  consisted  merely  of  a 
hospice,  the  original  of  an  institution  later  to  become 
famous  throughout  Europe,  and  a  tiny  chapel.  Willi- 
brord established  the  abbey  of  St.  Benedict  and  later 

314 


ECHTERNACH 

built  a  seminary  for  the  instruction  of  young  missionaries. 
To  this,  the  only  seat  of  learning  within  hundreds  of 
miles,  came  young  men  from  Germany,  the  Netherlands, 
France,  and  Lorraine.  Families  of  pious  and  intelli- 
gently ambitious  laymen  came  to  build  their  homes  about 
the  famous  abbey.  Christian  culture  was  taught  to  semi- 
savage.  The  fame  of  the  place  went  abroad  and  other 
men  and  women  came  to  share  in  its  peaceful  prosperity. 

The  agricultural  school  which  instructed  the  peasantry 
in  the  value  of  soils  and  the  rotation  of  crops  and  the 
methods  of  intensive  farming  still  in  vogue  throughout 
Europe,  maintained  experimental  gardens  in  which  its 
theoretical  courses  were  given  practical  test.  This 
probably  was  the  world's  first  "technical  college"  and  it 
disseminated  knowledge  of  an  inestimable  value. 

It  was  an  axiom  of  the  middle  ages  that  peace  would 
bring  prosperity  but  that  prosperity  would  bring  war. 
So  it  was  with  Echternach.  Without  recourse  to  the 
baronial  system  of  levying  taxes  upon  travelers  through 
their  domain  or  confiscating  the  gold  of  Jewish  peddlers 
for  no  reason  at  all,  the  abbots  of  Echternach  waxed 
wealthy.  The  people  of  the  district  seem  to  have  shared 
in  the  prosperity,  for  they  were  better  housed,  better  fed, 
and  of  a  higher  culture  than  the  retainers  of  the  castle 
seigneurs  elsewhere  in  the  duchy,  and  they  never  hesi- 
tated to  take  up  arms  against  the  invader.  Wealth 
excited  the  envy  of  the  spendthrift  knights  of  the  region 

315 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

and  the  abbey  town  of  Willibrord — unwalled,  virtually 
unarmed,  and  without  a  sky-flung  citadel  from  which  to 
conclude  worldly  argument  with  bon  mots  of  molten 
lead  and  copper-tipped  arrow — was  forced  time  and 
again  to  unsheathe  the  sword  and  meet  the  despoiler  on 
his  own  field. 

Not  always  were  the  defenders  of  Echternach  success- 
ful. War,  pestilence,  and  famine  are  no  respecters  of 
civic  righteousness.  Armies  of  friends  and  foes  alike 
sacked  the  abbey  at  various  times  during  its  eleven  cen- 
turies of  stirring  existence.  Its  treasures  are  scattered 
to-day  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  Europe. 

The  chief  charm  of  Echternach  is  that  it  stands 
unchanged  despite  the  flight  of  years.  In  mode  of 
thought  and  in  appearance  it  remains  as  it  was  hundreds 
of  years  ago,  an  interesting  picture  of  life  in  the  middle 
ages.  Automobiles  have  come,  hundreds  of  them  since 
gasolene  and  good  roads  discovered  the  hidden  charms  of 
the  Ardennes,  but  Echternach's  streets  are  still  paved 
with  ancient  cobble  and  rough  as  the  seaways  of  Finis- 
terre.  Electric  lights  produced  by  the  churning  waters 
in  the  canons  of  Little  Switzerland  have  found  favor  in 
one  or  two  interloping  tourist  hotels.  But  the  tallow 
candle  still  illuminates  the  simple  kitchen  living-room  of 
the  little  stone  cottage.  A  few  sequestered  mansions  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  property  of  wealthy  iron- 
mongers and  cloth-makers  who  realize  the  charm  of  its 

316 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

peace,  are  modern  enough.  But  Echternach  the  ancient 
disowns  them.    Old  age  frowns  upon  the  foibles  of  youth. 

The  Sure  curves  about  two  sides  of  the  town.  Steep 
cliffs  shelter  it  in  a  mantle  of  greenery.  On  the  slopes 
across  the  river,  in  Prussia,  hang  immense  tapestries  of 
orchard  and  vine  and  wonderful  mosaics  of  plowed  field 
and  dark  forest. 

"Blue  as  the  sweep  of  Our  Lady's  skirt,"  says  Pass- 
more,  ''the  broad  river  threads  the  abbey  gardens,  laps 
the  town  and  whisks  into  the  woods."  The  description  is 
apt. 

In  the  nook  between  the  blue  water  and  the  railroad 
that  somehow  seems  to  have  been  placed  there  by  acci- 
dent, is  le  jardin  du  casino,  a  fairy  garden  where  crystal 
fountains  sing  an  untranslatable  song  and  a  rainbow  of 
flowers  curves  under  the  gnarled  beeches.  At  the  point 
where  the  Sure  makes  its  abrupt  bend  is  a  pavilion  erected 
by  the  last  of  Willibrord's  successors, — an  observation- 
post  whence  one  can  look  out  upon  the  alluvial  plain 
rolling  out  to  the  embracing  hills,  or  down  upon  the  build- 
ings of  the  old  abbey  and  the  roofs  of  the  little  town 
beyond. 

Across  the  park  below  the  pavilion  one  may  obtain  a 
detailed  view  of  the  abbey  buildings,  including  the 
Basilica  of  St.  Willibrord  and  the  little  square-turreted 
church  of  Sts.  Peter  and  Paul  on  the  rising  ground  behind. 
The  parish  church  has  an  interesting  story  if  one  could 

317 


ECHTERNACH 

go  back  far  enough  into  the  ages  to  get  it.  There  is  plenty 
of  evidence  to  show  that  the  wooden  chapel  of  which  the 
present  peculiar  edifice  is  the  successor  was  erected  upon 
Roman  foundations,  which  in  turn  were  partially  formed 
with  the  rough  altar-stones  of  a  Druid  grove.  This  spot 
seems  to  have  been  consecrated  to  the  worship  of  deity 
under  one  name  or  another  since  the  adventurous  sons  of 
Adam  came  here  out  of  the  cradle  of  the  world. 

Of  the  structures  that  made  up  the  old  abbey,  the  most 
important  is  the  basilica,  otherwise  known  as  the  eglise 
abbatiale  which  dates  from  the  eleventh  century.  Origi- 
nally it  was  in  the  Roman  Gothic  style,  but  its  architec- 
tural purity  has  been  affected  by  additions  and  improve- 
ments. In  the  thirteenth  century  its  windows  were 
enlarged  and  its  roof  replaced  by  the  one  which  covers 
it  to-day.  During  the  epoch  of  "the  long  Good  Friday" 
it  was  dismantled  by  the  sansculottes,  who,  after  they 
had  looted  it,  put  it  to  use  as  barracks  and  stables.  The 
other  buildings  of  the  great  convent  suffered  a  similar 
fate.  Part  of  them  were  sold  to  an  earthenware-maker 
for  use  as  a  factory.  His  kilns  were  placed  in  the  basilica 
and  it  was  not  until  the  people  of  Echternach  formed  a 
society  and  raised  funds  for  the  repurchase  of  the  church 
that  its  progress  toward  complete  ruin  was  checked. 

Color  is  lavishly  used  in  the  interior  decoration  of  the 
basilica,  reds  predominating,  but  the  effect  is  harmonious 
and  pleasing.    Only  softened  tints  find  their  way  to  the 

318 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

eye  between  the  long  rows  of  alternating  round  and 
square  pillars. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  choir  is  a  tomb  of  Carrara  marble, 
last  resting-place  of  a  bit  of  dust  overlooked  by  the 
French  revolutionaries  when  they  scattered  the  remains 
of  St.  Willibrord.  These  mortal  ashes  were  found  in  the 
desecrated  crypt  and  carefully  saved  until  the  Terror 
had  passed.  They  then  were  removed  to  the  parish 
church  and  remained  there  until  1906,  when  they  were 
carried  back  in  a  solemn  procession  to  the  basilica. 

The  other  abbey  buildings  have  suffered  various  fates 
since  the  monks  were  driven  from  their  principality  of 
prayer  by  the  revolutionary  army  in  1794.  These  struc- 
tures, which  comprise  twenty-five  per  cent,  of  the  town, 
stand  in  their  gardens  as  they  did  when  the  first  rum- 
blings in  Paris  were  heard  with  no  great  concern.  To-day 
a  girls'  school  occupies  one  of  them.  Another  serves  as  a 
barracks  for  the  gendarmerie.  The  remainder  are 
tenanted  variously  by  public  offices,  a  dairy,  a  gymna- 
sium, and  an  electrical  plant. 

Not  far  from  the  park,  where  the  sixty  worn  steps  of 
the  church  of  Sts.  Peter  and  Paul  start  upon  their  breath- 
taking ascent,  is  the  famous  hospice  of  St.  Willibrord,  a 
queer  little  group  of  small  stone  buildings,  odd  enough 
shrine  for  an  age-old  idea.  Since  Irmine  decreed  that  old 
men  should  have  an  asylum  here,  old  men  have  always 
found  at  the  hospice  a  tranquil  resting-place  in  the  eve- 

319 


ECHTERNACH 

ning  of  their  years.  A  dozen  of  them  live  here  now. 
More  than  that  taxed  the  meager  accommodations  of  the 
place  during  the  period  of  profiteering  that  followed  the 
German  invasion. 

A  sweet-faced  mother  superior,  carrying  on  the  work 
begun  twelve  hundred  years  before  her  time,  willingly 
displays  her  little  refuge  and  declaims  its  history.  It  is 
the  oldest  hospice  in  Europe  save  one,  the  Hotel  Dieu  in 
Paris,  she  says.  And  she  recalls  with  a  trace  of  justifiable 
pride  that  even  the  infidels  of  the  Revolution,  who  rever- 
enced neither  king  nor  God,  bowed  their  respects  to  the 
superior  in  charge  and  passed  on  without  touching  it. 

Up  the  long  flight  worn  down  by  the  feet  of  suppliants 
innumerable, — come  here  to  seek  spiritual  aid  and  tem- 
poral blessing  at  the  shrine  of  the  saint, — the  way  leads 
to  the  Romanesque  walls  of  the  ancient  church.  The 
chapel  of  Sts.  Peter  and  Paul  is  built  upon  a  rocky  emi- 
nence and  is  reached  by  two  staircases  from  north  and 
south.  The  one  from  the  north  is  the  more  important. 
When  the  ceremonial  for  which  the  town  is  famous 
came  to  its  end  on  this  mound,  it  was  from  this  direction 
that  the  Pied  Piper  procession  of  pilgrims  wound  out  of 
the  town. 

There  is  little  that  is  beautiful  about  the  old  church 
except  purity  of  architectural  line,  extreme  simplicity  of 
construction,  and  that  ineffable  charm  that  comes  with 

320 


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Over  the  edge  of  wliich  the  Flying  Horseman  took  his  historic  leap 


VALE  OF  ETERNAL  TRANQUILLITY 

MARIENTHAL 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

mellowing  age.  Its  interior  is  whitewashed,  its  altar  and 
furnishings  carved  wood  of  no  great  pretensions. 

A  picture  to  the  right  of  the  choir,  said  to  date  from 
1554,  shows  St.  Willibrord  in  a  vision  bestowing  his 
approval  upon  the  annual  pilgrimage.  Some  of  the 
saint's  vestments,  his  haircloth  shirt,  and  an  arrow — sup- 
posed to  be  one  of  those  which  killed  St.  Sebastian, — are 
among  the  precious  relics  displayed  in  a  case  beneath  the 
picture.  The  Roman  sarcophagus  which  contained  all 
that  was  mortal  of  St.  Willibrord  prior  to  the  removal  of 
the  dust  to  the  basilica  in  1906  is  to  be  seen  beneath  the 
high  altar. 

So  much  for  the  glories  that  were  Echternach's.  What 
remains  of  them  can  be  seen  quickly  and  with  small 
expenditure  of  effort.  There  is  little  use  in  asking  the 
quiet  townsfolk  to  repeat  the  legends  of  the  place,  or  in 
lingering  in  the  gardens  in  the  hope  of  meeting  a  com- 
municative ghost.  The  traditions  of  Echternach  are  too 
poignantly  historical  to  have  been  translated  into  fairy 
stories.  The  harmless  wraiths  that  leave  their  tombs,  to 
Toam  beneath  the  beeches,  take  no  mortals  into  their 
confidence. 

But  once  a  year  the  abbey  town  stirs  itself  from  its 
peaceful  sleep.  The  spirits  of  the  dead  monks  troop 
down  from  the  abbey  cemetery.  The  feet  of  the  live 
burghers  slip  into  the  most  comfortable  shoes  available. 
And  there  begins  a  religious  ceremony  like  nothing  else 

321 


ECHTERNACH 

in  Europe,  a  pageant  as  dignified  as  it  is  startling,  and 
as  wierdly  unnatural  as  it  is  hallowed  by  usage — the 
famous  dance  of  the  Spring prozession. 

Dancing  has  had  its  place  in  the  church  ritual  else- 
where than  in  Echternach.  Traces  of  it  may  be  seen 
to-day  in  the  strictly  processional  marches  of  acolytes  at 
an  impressive  mass.  A  ballet  once  was  part  of  the  cathe- 
dral staff  in  some  of  the  more  important  Spanish  churches. 
In  the  mystical  rites  of  the  worship  in  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome  Terpsichore  was  a  temple  goddess. 

Hence  it  is  diflficult  to  say  when  Echternach's  proces- 
sion had  its  beginning.  It  is  mentioned  in  records  of  the 
eighth  century,  when  pilgrimages  to  the  tomb  of  St. 
Willibrord  began.  But  it  probably  existed  centuries 
before  that.  It  is  not  hard  to  see  in  it  a  Christianized 
survival  of  the  springtime  rites  in  honor  of  Diana,  whose 
priests  probably  borrowed  the  dance  from  a  propitiatory 
pageant  of  an  older  cult. 

Legend  explains  its  origin  in  detail,  however  careless 
written  history  may  have  been  about  the  date.  The  good 
burghers  of  Echternach  once  came  close  to  dire  poverty 
as  the  result  of  a  strange  illness  that  attacked  their  cattle. 
The  picture  as  presented  by  the  folk-tale  lacks  only  the 
cat  and  the  fiddle  to  make  it  very  familiar  to  the  friends 
of  Mother  Goose.  Though  the  cows  did  n't  leap  over 
the  moon  and  the  music  of  the  cat's  fiddling  may  not  have 
been  the  cause,  they  did  do  a  bit  more  leaping  than  is 

322 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

considered  good  for  cows.  Many  of  them  died  as  the 
result  of  their  debauch. 

They  ran  out  into  the  fields  and  danced,  stopping 
neither  for  food  nor  water,  until  their  tired  hoofs  folded 
beneath  them  and  they  expired  amid  convulsive  shivers 
and  piteous  moos. 

Even  the  learned  doctors  of  the  agricultural  college 
could  suggest  no  remedy  for  this  startling  complaint. 
They  suggested  a  procession  of  prayer. 

How  it  came  about  that  the  march  which  was  to  peti- 
tion a  stoppage  of  the  nimble  feet  of  the  cows  should 
itself  have  become  a  dance,  is  not  clear. 

At  any  rate,  the  populace  of  Echternach  formed  in  a 
sedate  line  at  the  river  and  proceeded  to  dance  through 
the  town  to  the  tomb  of  the  saint,  circle  the  church,  and 
dance  out  again.  And  the  devil's  itch  went  out  of  the 
feet  of  the  cattle. 

Each  year  after  that  the  procession  was  repeated,  grow- 
ing in  importance  as  greater  numbers  of  pilgrims  heard 
about  it.  Its  original  purpose  accomplished,  it  became  a 
"prayer  of  act"  in  behalf  of  humans  afflicted  with  epi- 
lepsy and  its  kindred  ills.  And  it  has  been  held  regularly 
ever  since,  in  rain  or  shine,  in  famine  or  plenty,  in  war 
or  peace. 

Dutiful  townspeople  who  would  not  venture  upon 
the  slightest  infraction  of  church  discipline  during  three 
hundred  and  sixty-four  days  of  the  year  calmly  ignored 

323 


ECHTERNACH 

ecclesiastical  censure  to  join  in  the  dance  on  Whitsun 
Tuesday.  Civil  authority,  reverenced  in  Echternach  as 
nowhere  else  in  the  duchy,  was  equally  powerless  to  halt 
it  or  alter  it.    Attempts  to  end  it  were  frequent. 

Late  in  the  fifteenth  century  the  Archbishop  of  Treves 
ordered  that  the  dancing-feature  of  the  service  be  elimi- 
nated. The  clergy  acquiesced  without  argument  and 
announced  on  Whitsunday  that  the  march  would  be 
slowed  to  a  sedate  walk. 

The  people  listened  respectfully  and  started  to  walk 
up  the  hill  from  the  Sure.  But  the  habit  of  years  was 
stronger  than  the  pronouncement  of  a  day.  They  had 
proceeded  scarcely  an  eighth  of  a  mile  when  the  leaders 
began  to  sing  the  simple  air  of  the  dance.  In  a  few  min- 
utes thousands  of  feet  were  in  motion,  hundreds  of  voices 
had  supplied  the  place  of  the  absent  orchestra.  The 
clergy,  powerless  to  stop  it,  went  on  to  the  church  as  in 
the  years  gone  by. 

Joseph  II  the  great  eliminator  ordered  it  suppressed. 
Had  he  ordered  the  people  to  go  without  one  meal  a  day 
for  an  indefinite  period  they  would  have  complied  with- 
out questioning.  In  feudal  Luxemburg  the  word  of 
Government  was  an  echo  of  the  word  of  God.  But  they 
did  not  recognize  Joseph's  right  to  stop  their  dance  any 
more  than  they  would  have  admitted  his  power  to  stop 
the  fountain  in  the  abbey  garden  with  an  imperial  com- 

324 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

mand  to  the  rock  whence  it  sprang.  Despite  the  arch- 
bishop, despite  the  emperor,  they  danced.  The  French 
crushed  the  dance  with  everything  else  that  savored  of 
religion.  But  it  came  back.  William  I  of  Holland — an 
economic  genius  he  must  have  been — figured  out  that  the 
time  lost  by  so  many  people  on  a  workday  for  such  fri- 
volity as  a  dance  represented  a  tremendous  waste.  He 
transferred  the  festival  to  a  Sunday;  and  he  was  ignored 
as  the  other  meddlers  had  been. 

Only  once  was  the  dance  stopped, — by  whose  authority 
it  is  not  said.  On  that  occasion,  though  human  beings 
went  loyally  to  their  work,  the  cattle  felt  an  atavistic 
tingling  in  their  feet  and  capered  out  into  the  hills  with 
scandalous  abandon.  Many  of  them  died  as  had  the 
cows  afflicted  by  the  dancing-epidemic  years  before. 

The  ceremonial  of  the  procession  starts  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning  with  the  celebration  of  masses  at  nume- 
rous roadside  altars  scattered  through  the  town. 

On  the  bridge  across  the  Sure  and  on  the  Prussian 
banks  of  the  river  opposite  Echternach  the  clans  of  the 
dance  are  gathering, — old  and  young,  sick  and  well,  spry 
and  halt.  Wreaths  of  spring  flowers  and  silken  banners 
embroidered  in  tarnished  gilt  are  flung  from  the  windows. 
The  morning  sun  strikes  a  strange  carnival  of  color  and 
motion. 

The  streets  fill  rapidly  as  men  in  their  high  hats  and 

325 


ECHTERNACH 

ceremonial  black,  women  in  finery  that  has  been  handed 
down  without  alteration  for  years,  girls  in  starched  linen 
and  tight  braids,  boys  scrubbed  until  the  outer  layer  of 
skin  seems  to  have  vanished  from  their  ruddy  faces  and 
omnipresent  hands,  step  out  into  the  cobbled  street  and 
hurry  toward  the  assembling-point.  It  is  not  yet  half- 
past  five  and  the  procession  does  not  start  until  eight,  but 
the  hurry  of  preparation  is  always  a  part  of  the  solemn 
ceremony. 

In  1913,  it  is  said,  more  than  twenty-five  thousand 
men,  women,  and  children  took  part  in  the  dance  and 
countless  hundreds  more  crowded  the  narrow  streets  to 
watch  them.  During  the  war,  while  the  Prussian  pil- 
grims were  more  numerous,  Luxemburg's  delegations 
were  smaller.  In  the  year  after  the  signing  of  the  armis- 
tice Luxemburg  journeyed  once  more  to  the  age-honored 
shrine.  But  American  guards  on  the  Sure  were  a  bit 
inquisitive  concerning  the  intentions  of  the  pious  Prus- 
sians. The  dance  has  not  yet  regained  the  proportions 
of  1913. 

Long  before  the  appointed  hour  a  vast  host  has 
assembled  in  the  fields  across  the  Sure.  The  bridge  is 
packed  with  them, — as  strange  an  assemblage  as  ever 
met  for  the  glory  of  God. 

The  priests  file  down  to  the  bridge-head  to  take  up 
their  place  at  the  head  of  the  procession.     Before  them 

326 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

march  a  cross-bearer,  eight  banner-bearers,  and  numerous 
acolytes  with  tapers  and  censers. 

For  three  hours  the  incense  has  been  burning  at  a  score 
of  shrines  and  the  air  is  spiced  with  a  blend  of  aromatics 
and  flowers. 

The  bell  of  Maximilian,  a  present  from  the  emperor 
to  the  abbey,  sounds  a  solemn  summons.  From  the 
moment  of  its  first  peal  it  has  a  solo  part  in  the  symphony 
of  Echternach.  The  town  is  so  quiet  that  a  spoken  word 
at  the  bridge  would  carry  to  the  hill  on  which  stands  the 
parish  church.  The  bell  ceases.  The  clank  of  censer 
chains  disturbs  the  muffling  stillness.  The  priests  and 
their  escort  move  out  toward  the  church.  The  throng  on 
the  bridge  stirs  itself,  with  a  murmur  that  is  like  a  sigh. 
There  is  movement  in  the  crowded  battalions  across  the 
river.  An  orchestral  choir  falls  in  behind  the  priests  and 
strikes  up  a  simple  melody  that  becomes  barbaric  as  it  is 
echoed  by  a  weird  medley  of  voices  and  given  a  pro- 
nounced rhythm  in  the  shuffling  of  regiments  of  feet. 
The  first  of  the  marchers  enters  the  town.  The  dance 
begins. 

''Si  and  e  Willibrorde,  alme  pater  pauperum  or  a  pro 
nobis^'  is  the  chant  that  sweeps  up  out  of  the  vale  in  an 
awe-inspiring  volume;  "Saint  Willibrord,  dear  friend  of 
the  poor,  pray  for  us." 

The  dancers  move  on  into  the  town — three  steps  for- 

327 


ECHTERNACH 

ward  and  two  back — with  a  sureness  of  foot  and  a  sense 
of  rhythm  that  sets  the  ground  to  vibrating. 

Instruments  new  and  old,  familiar  and  strange,  in 
tune  and  out,  blast  out  their  hymn-tune  with  a  savage 
energy  that  lends  a  wild  note  to  the  monotonous  drum 
chorus  of  dancing  feet.  Bagpipes,  flutes,  flageolets,  reed 
instruments  of  a  hundred  shapes  and  sizes,  battered  brass 
horns  take  up  the  air. 

Until  1906  it  was  customary  to  conclude  the  dance  at 
the  church  of  Sts.  Peter  and  Paul  and  the  pilgrims 
stepped  their  peculiar  polka  up  and  down  the  sixty  stairs 
with  as  much  freshness  and  energy  as  they  had  displayed 
at  the  starting-point.  This  was  no  small  feat,  when  one 
considers  that  the  dance  usually  consumes  more  than  five 
hours,  a  period  during  which  all  the  dancers  are  in  motion. 
With  the  removal  of  St.  Willibrord's  remains  to  the 
basilica,  however,  the  rigors  of  the  ceremonial  were  les- 
sened. Now  the  crowds  dance  into  the  abbey  church, 
continue  their  rhythmic  glide  up  the  center  aisle,  sepa- 
rate, dance  down  the  side  aisle  and  out  at  the  door,  and 
their  part  in  the  ceremony  is  over. 

No  bacchanalian  reaction  follows  the  dance  of  Echter- 
nach,  which  is  perhaps  the  strangest  part  of  it.  Many  a 
kermess  in  the  Ardennes  nearer  the  Meuse  starts  out  as 
auspiciously  as  this  and  ends  in  a  carouse  that  no  stretch 
of  imagination  could  provide  with  a  cloak  of  religion.  In 
Echternach  the  end  of  the  dance  marks  the  end  of  the 
festival.  The  tired  pilgrims  go  to  their  homes,  divest 
themselves  of  glad  raiment,  and  fall  to  their  dinners  with 

328 


ECHTERNACH 

energy,  discussing,  most  like,  the  much  larger  procession 
of  Grandmother's  day  when  everybody  danced  in  wooden 
shoes  and  the  clatter  was  too  awe-inspiring  to  permit  of 
description. 


329 


CHAPTER  XIX 
A  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS 


The  Tale  of  a  Three-Legged  Cat 

Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night. 
In  fog  or  fire,  by  lake  or  moorish  fen, 
Blue  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid  ghost  .  .  . 
Hath  hurtful  power  o'er  true  virginity. 

— Milton. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS 

WHAT  Willibrord's  Echternach  may  lack  in  the 
way  of  material  for  the  spinning  of  old  gaf- 
fers' tales,  over  the  curling  flames  of  a  peat 
fire  on  a  stormy  night,  is  plentifully  supplied  to  the 
country-side  about  the  old  town.  In  the  village  rested 
the  bones  of  the  saint.  In  the  hills  roamed  the  devil. 
And  where  the  Prince  of  All  Evil  has  set  his  cloven  hoof 
there  is  certain  to  be  a  wealth  of  narrative. 

High  in  the  rocks  above  the  town  may  be  seen  the 
remains  of  a  grotto  which  once  served  as  a  hermitage  for 
the  Holy  Cyrillius.  At  night  the  candle  before  his  tiny 
altar  shone  like  a  fixed  star  of  hope  for  the  villagers, 
above  a  wood  through  which  no  layman  could  be  tempted 
to  pass  after  dark  because  of  the  evil  spirits  that 
haunted  it. 

In  the  Benedictine  abbey,  outpost  as  it  was  of  the 
church  militant,  courage  was  one  of  the  chief  require- 
ments of  him  who  would  consecrate  his  life  to  the  service 
of  God.  Hence  tests,  as  severe  in  their  way  as  those 
required  for  the  gaining  of  knighthood,  were  as  much  a 

333 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

part  of  the  seminary  curriculum  as  philosophy  and 
theology.  It  was  the  custom  to  send  novices  on  midnight 
errands  through  the  haunted  wood.  Only  the  pure  of 
heart  dared  to  go  in  the  first  place,  and  only  the  brave 
came  back. 

One  night  the  prior  called  a  novice  before  him  and 
despatched  him  to  visit  Cyrillius. 

"You  will  bring  back  from  him,"  he  ordered,  "some 
token  to  show  that  you  have  reached  his  hermitage. 
Otherwise  you  will  have  to  make  the  journey  a  second 
time." 

So  the  novice  set  out. 

He  reached  the  hermitage  without  mishap,  only  to 
find  that  the  holy  man  was  not  at  home.  He  sat  down 
to  wait  but  realized  after  a  stay  of  several  hours  that  the 
hermit  was  quite  likely  to  remain  away  until  after  day- 
break. To  wait  that  long  would  be  to  incur  the  suspicion 
of  the  prior,  for  it  was  widely  known  that  the  evil  wraiths 
of  the  haunted  wood  disappeared  at  the  first  peep  of 
dawn. 

While  the  novice  was  pondering  upon  the  problem  of 
conduct,  a  black  cat,  long  the  pet  of  Cyrillius,  rubbed 
against  his  leg.  At  once  his  course  became  clear  to  him. 
The  cat  was  the  only  thing  save  altar  furniture  in  the 
grotto,  hence  the  cat  must  furnish  him  with  the  token  of 
his  visit.    Without  further  ado  he  cut  off  one  of  the  crea- 

334 


A  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS 

ture's  forepaws.  With  the  cat's  foot  in  his  pocket  he 
went  back  down  the  lonely  hill  to  the  abbey. 

Shortly  after  his  departure  Cyrillius  returned,  to  find 
his  pet  mewing  in  pain  on  the  floor.  He  bound  up  the 
wound  and  might  have  healed  the  injury  save  for  the 
fact  that  the  severed  paw  had  been  carried  away. 

"I  can  do  no  more  for  you,"  he  told  the  cat.  "Go  out 
and  find  your  paw.  Bring  it  back  to  me  and  I  shall  put 
it  back  on." 

The  cat  obeyed  the  command  and  hurried  down  to  the 
village,  only  to  find  that  the  gates  of  the  abbey  were 
closed. 

From  that  day  to  this  the  cat  comes  down  from  the  hill- 
side in  search  of  her  paw.  The  prospects  of  her  finding  it 
grow  dimmer  every  year. 

Another  story  of  the  same  three-legged  cat  ascribes 
her  predicament  to  an  entirely  different  set  of  circum- 
stances. According  to  this  account,  the  hermitage  of 
Cyrillius  was  once  owned  by  a  magician  named  Kitzele. 
Theofrid  the  Learned  was  abbot  of  the  Benedictines. 

Kitzele  was  supreme  in  the  haunted  wood  and  mo- 
bilized his  noisome  retainers  to  plague  the  good  people 
of  the  town.  Theofrid  prayed  that  the  community  might 
be  freed  from  these  sundry  devils,  but  he  neglected  to 
pray  for  himself.  Whereupon  the  demons  went  back  to 
their  wood  and  appointed  seven  of  their  number  to  visit 

335 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

upon  the  abbot  all  the  troubles  hitherto  distributed  about 
the  village. 

By  various  unnamed  expedients  the  abbot  succeeded  in 
ridding  himself  of  all  of  the  hends  but  one  who  had  taken 
the  form  of  a  black  cat.  All  night  long  this  cat  would 
howl  at  his  window,  keeping  him  from  sleep  and  dis- 
turbing his  pious  meditations. 

This  persecution  went  on  for  several  weeks,  until  one 
night  the  good  abbot  set  a  trap  outside  his  window.  The 
cat  came  to  howl  as  usual,  stepped  into  a  noose  of  linen 
cord,  and  was  speedily  snared.  Theofrid  dragged  the 
spitting,  yowling  quarry  into  his  cell  and  chopped  off  one 
of  its  paws. 

The  cat  leaped  out  at  the  window,  but  the  abbot  threw 
the  paw  into  the  hre  and  scattered  the  ashes.  By  this 
simple  method  he  had  condemned  the  demon  to  go 
through  eternity  beneath  the  hide  of  a  cat;  for  not  until 
the  evil  creature  should  be  able  to  reassemble  the  parts 
of  his  enchanted  body  would  he  be  able  to  reassume  his 
natural  shape. 

The  magician  Kitzele  was  never  seen  again,  but  a 
three-legged  cat  still  roams  the  woods,  especially  on 
nights  when  there  is  no  moon. 

Across  the  river  from  Echternach  is  Bollendorf, 
Prussia, — the  Roman  Bollena, — and  in  the  rocks  above 
it  is  a  garden  of  the  gods.  More  properly  speaking,  it 
is  a  burying-ground  of  the  gods,  for  the  deities  whose 

336 


A  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS 

biographies  are  written  here  in  a  hundred  strange  relics 
have  passed  on. 

Baal  and  El,  Sin,  Shamus,  and  Bin,  Jupiter,  Diana, 
and  Venus,  Odin,  Thor,  and  Holda  all  have  walked 
across  this  plateau  and  left  their  footprints  in  undying 
rock.  Their  sacrificial  monuments  are  strewn  across  the 
plateau,  interspersed  with  the  fortifications  erected  by 
the  men  who  fought  for  them.  If  Echternach  may  be 
classed  as  a  survival  of  medievalism,  then  this  strange 
museum  may  be  said  to  represent  the  infancy  of  man. 
Age  is  here, — age  so  hoary  that  the  mind  staggers  in  the 
contemplation  of  it. 

The  mysteries  of  the  Druid  groves  are  multiplied  a 
hundredfold  at  Bollendorf .  There  is  a  trail,  ever  so  faint 
but  still  a  trail,  connecting  these  priests  and  their  glut- 
tonous gods  with  the  movement  of  race.  But  how  the 
gods  of  Chaldea  came  into  the  North  and  West,  modern 
man  can  only  guess. 

Opposite  the  abbey  town  two  relics  elbow  each  other 
in  significant  rivalry.  One  is  the  villa  of  a  Roman  pro- 
consul, the  other  a  rock-strewn  camp  of  Attila  the 
Scourge  of  God.  The  palace  of  the  patrician  is  a  hotel 
now.  Yesterday  it  was  part  of  the  estate  of  the  Benedic- 
tines. Willibrord's  escutcheon  still  is  to  be  seen,  carved 
in  the  time-stained  wood  panelings  and  chiseled  in  the 
stone  mantelpieces. 

All  of  the  calm  of  Echternach  is  here,  and  greater 

337 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

magnificence.  The  hotel  has  never  ceased  to  be  a  palace. 
No  amount  of  modern  necessity — even  the  Prussian 
brand  of  modern  necessity — has  been  able  to  replace  the 
array  of  rare  old  tapestries,  ancient  furniture,  inlaid 
flooring,  or  massive  chandeliers.  Broad  doors  give  access 
from  one  room  to  another  and  when  all  are  open  the  hotel 
becomes  a  long  hall,  mysterious  in  the  half-lights,  delight- 
fully cool  when  the  sun  is  blazing  outside,  and  peaceful 
as  a  convent  cloister.  It  passed  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
Benedictines  during  the  French  revolution  and  was  sold 
to  the  family  of  its  present  owners  for  a  price  less  than 
the  figure  that  its  fading  tapestries  would  have  brought 
in  the  open  market. 

The  Garden  of  the  Gods  lies  at  the  apex  of 'the  hill 
behind  the  village  of  BoUensdorf  in  a  wood  that  some- 
how gives  a  first  impression  similar  to  that  of  an  over- 
worked American  picnic  grove.  Undoubtedly  this  is  a 
famous  holiday  resort  and  favored  trysting-place. 
Among  the  tombs  of  long-dead  conquerors  and  the  altars 
of  dispossessed  deity,  the  youth  of  the  valley  comes  to 
dance  its  heavy-footed  dances,  sing  its  throaty  songs,  and 
plight  its  love  eternal. 

Yonder  boy  and  girl  who  sit  very  close  together,  gaz- 
ing down  with  unseeing  eyes  into  the  dizzy  valley  of  the 
Sure,  probably  are  not  concerned  with  the  dust  of 
antiquity  that  a  perverse  summer  breeze  sweeps  up  at 
their  feet.    Venus  once  made  this  grove  her  home;  what 

338 


A  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS 

cares  the  youth  who  sees  her  reincarnation  in  the  buxom 
rosy-cheeked  maid  at  his  side'?  Adonis  had  his  shrine 
close  to  the  rock  on  which  they  sit;  what  cares  the  maid 
for  dead  Adonis,  when  living  in  all  his  beauty  he  could 
not  distract  her  eyes  from  the  love-lighted  countenance 
of  the  farmer  lad  who  holds  her  hand'?  The  dead  are 
dead,  whether  gods  or  common  clay,  and  life  at  its  fullest 
makes  no  compact  with  them. 

The  feet  of  Diana  still  cling  to  an  altar  in  the  light- 
spangled  shadows  of  the  forest  near  by,  but  only  her  feet. 
The  chiseled  image  of  the  chaste  huntress  lies  in  scat- 
tered and  unrecognizable  fragments  about  the  base  of 
her  pillar. 

An  inscription,  still  legible,  shows  that  this  shrine  was 
erected  by  one  Q.  Postumius  as  a  thank-offering  for  the 
granting  of  an  unnamed  favor.  Who  Postumius  may 
have  been,  and  what  was  his  place  in  the  turbulent  history 
of  this  portion  of  Gaul,  none  can  say.  Passmore  remarks 
concerning  this  relic  that  though  Postumius  may  have 
been  the  general  of  Gallienus,  savior  of  Gaul,  renowned 
for  his  prowess  as  a  tactician  and  master  of  men,  the 
record  of  his  splendid  achievements  is  gone  and  for- 
gotten ;  there  remains  to  bring  back  his  name  to  the  world 
only  this  mark  of  his  lasting  piety. 

Follow  the  dim  path  upward  through  the  rocks,  past 
the  cleft  where  a  breath  of  ice  sweeps  out  of  the  chill 
mountain.    The  Celts  built  a  fortress  in  this  bit  of  sacred 

339 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

wood  and  gave  battle  to  Caesar.  It  is  here  still,  a  rocky 
pile  of  the  sort  which  fathered  the  great  castles. 

South  of  the  fort  is  the  Heidestein  (Heathen  Stone), 
a  Druid  altar,  weird  in  its  setting  of  gaunt  rock  and  whis- 
pering beeches.  There  is  a  plaintively  human  note  in  the 
organ  tone  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and  elfin  laughter  in 
the  trickling  water  that  plashes  over  the  stones  from  a 
near-by  spring.  Nature  itself  seems  to  have  conspired 
with  the  spirits  of  the  departed  mystics  to  keep  their 
memory  alive. 

Within  sight  is  a  beech-tree  which  until  a  century  ago 
was  the  center  of  a  dancing-park.  Where  each  year  the 
young  people  of  the  country-side  assembled  for  a  revival 
of  a  pagan  pageant  that  their  forefathers  had  celebrated 
even  before  the  arrival  of  Caesar.  Gaul  and  Roman  tomb- 
stones, markers  of  the  death  struggle  between  savagery 
and  a  forceful  civilization,  are  strewn  promiscuously  in 
this  part  of  the  garden,  showing  it  to  have  been  an  impor- 
tant frontier  in  the  march  of  Progress.  Farther  on  is  the 
Schweigstelle  (which  Passmore  interprets  as  "Site  of 
Silence") ,  a  drinking-trough  of  stone  into  which  bubbles 
a  natural  fountain.  The  name  of  one  Artio,  who  leaves 
no  biography,  may  be  read  on  the  side  of  it. 

Up  winds  the  way  to  Kruppicht  Felsen  and  the  top 
of  the  world.  The  duchy  is  spread  out  on  a  vast  table  of 
vari-shaded  green,  with  Thionville  and  its  furnaces 
marking  the  rim  at  one  corner  and  the  towers  of  Arlon 

340 


A  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS 

peeping  up  into  gray  distance  at  another.  Close  by  is  the 
Fraubillen  Kreuz,  Bellona's  cross,  which  was  uprooted 
from  its  peaceful  business  of  being  a  relic  and  given  prac- 
tical work  in  the  marking  of  the  boundaries  of  the  County 
of  Vianden. 

To  the  north  of  the  plateau  is  Wikingerbourg,  Viking's 
Tower,  a  thrilling  sight  to  one  who  has  seen  the  ruins  of 
the  pre-Columbian  structures  that  once  must  have  been 
numerous  along  the  Atlantic  coast  of  America.  The 
Scandinavian  voyagers  did  not  confine  their  expeditions 
to  the  western  seas.  Here  is  their  autograph  in  the  hills, 
a  landmark  of  common  import  in  the  destinies  of  two 
hemispheres. 

It  is  noon.  From  the  vale  comes  the  tinkling  of  a 
distant  chime, — three  strokes — a  pause — three  more 
strokes — a  pause.    The  Angelus  I 

Other  bells  take  up  the  anthem.  A  dozen  villages 
sound  the  call  to  prayer.  And  here,  amid  the  ashes  of 
the  gods,  one  begins  to  realize  the  magnitude  of  the  work 
that  Willibrord  wrought. 


341 


CHAPTER  XX 
BRANDENBOURG 


The  Hunted  Huntsman 

Wandering  between  two  worlds — one  dead, 
The  other  powerless  to  be  born. 

— Matthew  Arnold. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BRANDENBOURG 

FOLLOW  the  singing  river  north  from  the  Druid 
haunts  of  Diekirch. 
The  valley  is  like  a  furrow  thrown  up  by  a 
giant's  plow, — rocky,  shadowy,  forbidding,  suggestive  in 
its  tumbling  escarpments  of  the  castle  ruins  it  harbors. 
If  ever  the  stamp  of  sedate  antiquity  was  set  upon  a 
landscape,  it  is  here. 

But  the  Blees,  foam-crested  where  it  strikes  the  rock 
points  in  its  obstructed  course,  laughs  at  the  dignity  of 
its  surroundings.  A  noisy  river  is  the  Blees,  a  Lodore  of 
a  river,  sometimes  whispering,  sometimes  chuckling, 
sometimes  roaring  a  protest  at  the  intruding  feet  of  the 
cliffs.  But  always  it  is  a  beautiful  river,  a  mountain 
stream  of  crystal  water,  cold  as  the  springs  from  which  it 
rises,  and  swift  as  the  white  horse  of  the  phantom  Otho. 

One  passes  through  Bastendorf,  landmark  on  that 
invisible  frontier  between  Gutland  and  the  Oesling,  be- 
tween schist  and  sandstone.  Here  the  Blees,  flowing 
down  from  the  North  after  a  continuous  quarrel  with 
Oesling  wilderness,  strikes  the  scattering  orchard  land 
that  fills  the  valley  to  Diekirch,  and  carves  an  easier  path 

345 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

through  the  sandstone  of  the  South,  abandoning  its  chat- 
ter of  protest  for  a  song  of  content. 

From  this  point  the  highroad  proceeds  up  the  river 
into  chaos.  The  valley  narrows,  the  verdure  fades,  the 
rocks  emerge  in  frowning  nakedness. 

Comes  presently  the  Mullenbach,  a  tiny  ribbon  of 
white  water  cascading  into  the  Blees,  an  open  space,  a 
vista  of  spear-pointed  poplars,  a  tremendous  uplifting 
rock,  and  Brandenbourg. 

Brandenbourg  Castle,  forlorn  as  an  outpost  of  Tar- 
tarus, is  an  excellent  example  of  the  military  construc- 
tion of  the  wild  Oesling.  Its  great  pyramid  of  rock  rises 
higher  and  provides  fewer  footholds  than  those  of  the 
South.  The  soft  reddish  tint  that  softened  the  stone 
walls  of  the  Gutland  strongholds  is  absent  here.  Instead, 
the  gray  schist  of  the  cliff  merges  to  blackness  in  the 
schloss, — a  blackness  made  deeper  by  the  purple-tinged 
firs  that  entwine  their  roots  within  and  without  the 
spectral  walls. 

A  soporific  scent  of  pine  and  lilacs  sweeps  down  the 
white  road.  A  crowing  rooster  and  the  murmuring 
waters  alone  compete  with  the  grand  symphony  of 
silence.  A  woman  is  washing  clothes  in  the  river.  Near 
her  a  gay  and  festive  goat  is  chasing  a  frightened  baby. 
And  all  of  this  is  like  a  moving  picture  that  presently 
will  fade  out. 

On  up  the  road,  wreathing  the  base  of  the  castle  prom- 

346 


BRANDENBOURG 

ontory,  choked  in  by  the  encroaching  cliffs,  is  the  village 
of  Brandenbourg,  a  sparkling  place  where  the  sun,  filter- 
ing through  the  pines,  strikes  moss-covered  roofs.  Low- 
hanging  cirrus  clouds  float  above  the  castle  and  scatter 
their  torn  veiling  over  the  hillside. 

Something  like  the  peace  of  a  vast  cathedral  pervades 
Brandenbourg.  Patches  of  color,  like  reflections  from 
stained  glass,  drip  from  the  cliff  walls.  Colonnades  of 
trees  throw  up  a  lacy  maze  of  Gothic  arches  toward  the 
sky.  The  road  marches  on  like  a  wide  aisle  to  the  high 
altar  of  the  castle.  The  village  kneels,  a  congregation  at 
prayer.  The  Blees  and  the  Mullerbach  sing  the  re- 
sponses. And  over  all  is  the  solemn  organ  tone  of  the 
breeze  in  the  pines. 

In  such  a  setting  rides  the  Hunted  Huntsman.  In 
such  a  silence  is  engendered  the  ghostly  sound  of  a  phan- 
tom horn  and  the  eerie  baying  of  the  devil's  bloodhounds. 

Count  Otho,  one  of  the  first  of  the  Brandenbourg  line, 
was  the  cause  of  all  this.  For  a  thousand  years  he  has 
been  riding  through  these  shadowy  glens  and  over  these 
stony  crests,  scarcely  an  arrow-shot  ahead  of  the  hell- 
hounds that  seek  his  soul.  And  the  wild  chase  must  con- 
tinue until  Judgment  Day. 

Otho,  who  lived  in  the  tenth  century,  was  a  huntsman 
of  note  in  the  northern  highlands.  When  he  was  not 
occupied  with  the  business  of  war  and  pillage  he  threw 
himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  pleasures  of  the  chase.    At 

347 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  gallop  he  rode  until  his  horses  dropped  under  him, 
through  village  gardens,  across  plowed  fields,  over  bud- 
ding vineyards.  The  ribald  shouts  of  his  followers,  the 
clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the  winding  of  the  huntsman's  horn, 
disturbed  the  inhabitants  of  the  near-by  villages  at  their 
prayers.  But  the  burghers  dared  not  protest  and  Otho 
paid  no  attention  to  their  unspoken  grievances. 

One  Sunday  as  the  count  rode  after  his  hounds  he 
encountered  two  cavaliers,  one  in  crimson  armor,  one  in 
white.  They  gathered  their  horses  as  he  passed  and 
cantered  abreast  of  him. 

Otho  had  distanced  his  retainers  or  he  might  have 
spoken  the  resentment  he  felt  at  this  uninvited  attend- 
ance. But  both  knights  looked  formidable,  so  he  greeted 
them  gruffly  and  continued  on  the  trail  of  the  flying  dogs. 

"Otho,"  said  the  white  knight  in  a  soft,  musical  voice, 
"this  is  Sunday.  You  have  desecrated  the  sabbath  and 
have  disturbed  the  prayers  of  good  people  who  would 
make  their  peace  with  God.  You  should  cease  this 
folly,  call  off  the  dogs,  and  go  back  to  mass." 

"I  do  not  need  a  spiritual  director,"  declared  Otho, 
hotly.  "Nor  do  I  need  company.  You  have  not  been 
invited  to  this  chase  and  you  are  imposing  upon  good 
nature." 

The  red  knight  laughed.  The  hills  thundered, 
although  the  sun  was  shining  brightly. 

"Well  spoken,"  commented  the  rider  in  the  crimson 

348 


BRANDENBOURG 

armor.  "Worship  is  for  churls  who  have  nothing  else  to 
do  with  their  time.  When  they  go  to  church  they  keep 
out  from  under  the  feet  of  their  betters.  On  with  the 
hunt. — Hallooo  I — Hallooo  !'* 

Out  of  the  brush  before  them  suddenly  dashed  a  hart, 
snow-white  and  luminous,  the  most  wonderful  animal 
that  Count  Otho  had  beheld  in  all  his  years  as  a 
huntsman. 

The  count  set  spurs  to  his  tired  horse  and  gave  chase. 

The  two  strangers  continued  at  his  side  and  thus 
accompanied  he  dashed  over  hill  and  hollow,  over 
meadows  and  through  forests,  until  presently  the  quarry 
made  an  abrupt  turn  and  fled  into  a  little  white  chapel 
that  Otho  could  never  remember  having  seen  before. 

The  count  was  about  to  ride  across  the  threshold  of  this 
sacred  place  when  an  aged  hermit  arose  in  the  doorway 
before  him. 

"This  place  is  holy,"  said  the  hermit.  "All  that  comes 
here  has  the  right  of  sanctuary.  There  must  be  no  vio- 
lence in  the  House  of  God." 

The  white  knight  listened  in  silence.  The  red  knight 
cursed  violently.    Otho  became  purple  with  rage. 

"Stand  aside!"  he  commanded.  "I  am  lord  of  this 
domain.  No  greasy,  maundering  old  fool  is  to  cheat  me 
of  the  finest  trophy  ever  sought  by  a  noble  hunting- 
party." 

The  hermit  made  no  sign  of  yielding. 

349 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"Take  the  idiot's  head,"  suggested  the  red  rider.  "It 
will  make  a  pleasing  companion  piece  to  the  stag's  antlers 
above  your  mantel." 

Otho,  crazy  with  anger,  raised  his  sword  to  strike. 

The  hermit  raised  his  crucifix. 

There  came  a  blinding  flash  and  a  crash  as  if  the  world 
had  opened.  The  chapel,  the  white  hart,  the  hermit,  and 
the  red  knight  had  vanished.  The  white  knight  was  dis- 
solving in  a  lucent  mist. 

"Otho,"  came  the  voice  of  the  white  rider.  "You  have 
rejected  God  and  listened  to  the  counsel  of  evil.  Hence- 
forth you  must  pay  the  penalty.  You  will  ride  these 
hills  the  quarry  of  fiends  who  will  give  you  no  rest.  Until 
Judgment  Day  your  plight  will  be  a  warning  to  those 
who  live  in  this  valley." 

Count  Otho,  left  alone,  heard  the  blood-curdling  cry 
of  the  hounds  behind  him.  He  set  out  upon  his  never- 
ending  flight,  not  dead  but  foredoomed,  with  murderous 
demons  at  his  heels. 

Otho's  place  in  the  genealogy  of  Brandenbourg  is  not 
well  marked.  Godfrey,  son  of  Ferdinand  I  of  Vianden, 
was  the  first  of  the  estate's  hereditary  counts.  His  de- 
scendants were  men  of  power.  Not  an  intrigue,  not  a 
battle  in  the  stirring  history  of  the  duchy  found  them 
absent. 

One  Count  Godfrey  fought  a  successful  battle  against 
the  Duke  of  Bergundy,  who  claimed  the  castle  through 

350 


BRANDENBOURG 

a  deed  by  Elizabeth  of  Goerlitz,  who  never  owned  it. 
Brandenbourg  could  afFord  to  laugh  even  at  the  mighty 
Bergundy  in  those  days  of  the  infancy  of  gunpowder. 
Even  in  its  wrack  the  castle  carries  a  swashbuckling  air 
of  defiance  to  the  world.  Then,  it  spread  across  the  craggy 
top  of  its  promontory  like  a  flat  and  serviceable  helmet 
rather  than  a  towering  and  stately  plume.  Its  walls  were 
oversized,  its  ramparts  double,  its  fosse  deep  to  a  point 
that  betokened  excess  precaution  and  kept  filled  with 
water  from  the  Blees.  There  were  no  "dead  spaces"  along 
its  approaches  where  the  enemy  could  rest  for  a  breathing- 
spell  in  the  assault.  Brandenbourg  stood  out  in  the  open, 
and  so  did  the  enemy  engaged  in  the  attack. 

It  is  said  that  Julius  Caesar,  when  he  had  completed  the 
fortifications  at  Besantina   (Besangon)   declared: 

"With  twenty  men  here  I  could  hold  off  all  the  armies 
in  the  world." 

But  Caesar  at  Besanqon  had  no  such  natural  advan- 
tages to  work  with  as  Godfrey  or  whoever  it  was  that  laid 
the  corner-stone  of  Brandenbourg. 

Brandenbourg  scoffed  at  attack  and  poured  hot  tokens 
upon  the  heads  of  its  enemies  for  many  a  century,  until 
Boufflers  mobilized  his  batteries  for  target-practice. 
Even  then  the  marshal  of  the  Grand  Monarch  found  his 
task  cut  out  for  him.  A  small  garrison  in  the  castle  made 
a  brave  stand  against  the  torch-men  while  the  bronze 
cannon  were  finding  the  weak  spots  in  the  thick  walls. 

351 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Since  that  time,  of  course,  strange  things  have  been  hap- 
pening amid  the  castle  wreckage.  It  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  Brandenbourg's  dead  could  sleep  more  peace- 
fully than  those  of  the  other  battered  relics  of  feudalism. 
The  schloss  now  is  in  the  abomination  of  desolation. 
Fir-trees  have  grown  thickly  in  the  hall  of  the  knights. 
Groves  hide  the  arches  in  chambers  where  once  the  fair 
women  of  the  castle  strummed  their  guitars  to  the  lyrics 
of  love.  A  wilderness  of  vegetation  fills  the  courtyard 
and  blocks  the  gate.  And  the  mountain  zephyrs  play  a 
"Dies  Irae"  in  the  tree-tops. 


352 


CHAPTER  XXI 
BOURSCHEID 


The  Restless  Crusader 

Where  e'er  we  tread,  't  is  haunted,  holy  ground. 

— Byron. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

BOURSCHEID 

GRIM  and  gaunt — frowning  structures  blending 
chameleon-like  with  the  frowning  landscape — 
were  the  castles  of  the  Oesling.  In  a  region  of 
igneous  rock,  where  valleys  were  narrower  and  slopes 
steeper  than  in  the  more  gentle  regions  of  the  Gutland, 
a  chain  of  strongholds  sprang  up  in  the  barren  hills  and 
made  a  barrier  for  the  duchy  against  the  tribes  of  the 
North, — Vianden,  Brandenbourg,  Bourscheid,  Clervaux, 
and  Esch.  And  as  strong  as  the  strongest  of  these  was 
Bourscheid. 

The  ending  of  its  place-name,  "scheid,"  is  derived 
from  the  old  Celtic  root  meaning  "shed"  or  "divide"  and 
indicates  its  position  in  the  geography  of  Luxemburg. 
Bourscheid  was  a  lighthouse  on  a  coast  of  wrack.  Behind 
it  the  wild  Oesling  casts  up  its  waves  of  stone.  Before  it 
the  world  drops  away  in  a  haze  of  softened  greenery 
where  the  crops  of  the  Gutland  are  growing. 

But  the  shore-line  between  the  Oesling  and  the  Gut- 
land is  a  variable  thing.  The  schists  of  the  hard-rock 
region  have  slipped  down  along  the  valley  of  the  Sure 
almost  to  the  edge  of  Ettelbruck.    One  leaves  for  Bour- 

355 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

scheid,  to  the  north,  through  a  valley  buttressed  with 
basaltic  clifFs  of  the  frontier  country,  while  the  banks  of 
the  streams  are  lined  with  fertile  farm  lands. 

With  each  mile  the  roughness  of  the  country  increases. 
Green  is  glimpsed  now  as  square  patches  of  forest  on 
black  hills  or  irrigated  farm  land  in  the  bottoms.  The 
trees  are  gnarled  and  bent,  and  covered  with  mosses  that 
give  them  strange  colors.  The  air  is  filled  with  the  per- 
fume of  flowers  and  the  tang  of  balsam.  The  valley  has 
become  a  gorge. 

Then  suddenly,  through  a  cleft  in  the  rock  as  the  train 
emerges  from  a  tunnel,  one  catches  a  glimpse  of  a  castle 
on  a  far-flung  hill, — a  castle  from  whose  cone-roofed 
turrets  the  sun  drips  silver;  a  master  castle  that  strikes  the 
eye  with  numbing  effect.  There  is  no  picture  quite  like 
it  in  Luxemburg. 

The  road  curves,  the  rock  leaps  up,  the  shadow  falls, 
the  train  strikes  straight  at  an  overhanging  cliff,  and  the 
castle  is  clipped  from  view.  Then  come  a  tunnel  and  a 
burst  of  sunlight  in  the  midst  of  an  incalculable  vastness. 

One  alights  at  Michelau  to  visit  Bourscheid. 
Michelau  lies  in  the  valley,  a  thing  apart,  neither  claimed 
by  nor  claiming  any  portion  of  the  wreck  upon  the  hill. 
It  is  quite  like  any  other  village  except  that  it  is  close  to 
Bourscheid  and  possesses  a  reflected  charm.  It  is  proud  of 
its  germane  relationship  and  a  bit  self-satisfied.  This  is 
its  picture:  A  few  crooked  little  white  streets,  a  few 

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BOURSCHEID 

cramped  little  stone  houses  with  pink  walls  over  which 
rose-vines  grow  irregularly,  a  few  snarling  dogs,  a  few 
laughing  children,  a  Minorca  rooster,  and  a  number  of 
goats. 

Everybody  in  this  village  seems  to  have  something  to 
do  and  to  have  plenty  of  time  for  the  doing.  The  play  of 
the  white  light  and  the  black  shadow,  the  warmth,  and 
the  verdure  combine  to  make  Michelau  resemble  some- 
what a  Mexican  adobe  town.  The  villagers,  pleasant  but 
unhurried,  do  their  bit  to  complete  this  picture  of  the 
land  of  manana. 

A  little  bridge  lolls  across  the  river,  and  thence  leads  a 
road  in  a  zigzagging  maze  up  the  hill. 

The  natives  smile  as  one  starts  up  the  grade.  They 
realize,  of  course,  that  the  traveler  must  wish  to  view  the 
castle.  Else  he  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  mount  the 
hill.  But,  mon  Dieul  what  a  waste  of  effort  when  one 
can  see  the  castle  from  the  village !  Their  lack  of  under- 
standing is  evidenced  with  many  a  shaking  of  the  head 
and  mutterings  in  Luxembourgeois. 

Passmore  has  declared  the  swaggering  Bourscheid  to 
be  the  most  remarkable  of  the  duchy's  ruins,  but  neglects 
to  explain  why.  There  are  other  castles  as  large  in  Lux- 
emburg, many  as  well  preserved.  And  yet  one  feels  that 
his  dictum  is  well  founded. 

Certainly  one  senses  the  influence  of  Bourscheid. 
There  is  a  throat-catching  grandeur  in  the  first  glimpse  of 

357 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

it  and  a  remnant  of  awe  in  its  beauty  when  one  studies  its 
might  from  closer  range. 

I  believe  that  the  setting  of  the  castle  is  chiefly  respon- 
sible for  its  appeal :  below  it  a  vast  panorama  of  bucolic 
peace,  above  it  the  crags  as  warlike  to-day  as  they  were 
when  they  supplied  spear  heads  and  hammers  for  the 
Celts,  on  one  side  a  zone  of  dark  firs,  on  the  other  the 
turquoise  and  cobalt  of  the  sun-filled  sky.  Of  course 
Bourscheid  itself  is  Bourscheid,  quite  unlike  any  other 
schloss  in  the  wilderness  of  the  Ardennes;  but  had  the 
castle  been  crudity  itself  instead  of  a  masterpiece  of  forti- 
fication, it  must  still  have  been  stupendous  by  reason  of 
the  advantages  with  which  nature  surrounded  it. 

Upward  the  road  curves  through  forest  tunnels. 
Openings  between  the  bordering  firs  yield  sudden  unex- 
pected views  of  the  country-side  and  an  unseen  hand 
turns  the  little  crank  on  the  kaleidoscope.  Each  curve 
brings  its  new  point  of  view;  each  point  of  view  its  own 
vision;  now  greensward  and  meadow  marching  toward 
blue  distance;  now  a  surf  of  shrubbery  breaking  upon  a 
coast  of  rock;  now  rock  in  its  own  mightiness,  and  pres- 
ently the  climax  of  the  castle. 

The  feudal  village  of  Bourscheid  is  behind  the  schloss 
and  farther  up  the  slope.  It  was  there,  probably,  when 
the  sugar-loaf  hill  first  was  selected  by  the  original  lords 
of  Bourscheid  as  a  likely  spot  for  a  robbers'  roost.  Tradi- 
tion has  it  that  the  Romans  had  a  camp  on  the  crest  and 

358 


BOURSCHEID 

it  seems  likely  that  this  queer  little  group  of  buildings, 
which  appears  to  be  more  of  a  bas-relief  than  a  village, 
was  set  on  the  height  because  of  the  home-building  ad- 
vantages afforded  by  foundations  and  cut  rock  already  on 
the  scene.  The  village  chose  its  sleeping-rooms  on  an 
upper  story.  The  castle  came  to  spread  its  protection  like 
that  of  a  watch-dog  across  the  threshold  on  the  main  floor. 

An  ancient  crusader  in  battered  armorings  is  said  to 
guard  the  destinies  of  Bourscheid. 

The  dilapidated  ramparts  and  crumbling  towers  of  the 
fortress  palace  make  a  fitting  scene  for  romance, — a  spot 
weird  enough  in  its  aspect  to  stimulate  the  fancy  of  native 
story-tellers  and  beautiful  enough  to  tempt  even  a  cru- 
sader back  from  the  grave. 

The  castle,  said  to  be  one  of  the  best  examples  of  tenth- 
century  military  architecture  in  the  duchy,  is  triple- 
walled,  guarded  by  gigantic  towers,  and  balanced  against 
the  sky  in  all  the  aloofness  of  the  tip  of  the  Matterhorn. 
It  was  built  prior  to  the  crusades,  but  its  nobles  first  came 
into  prominence  as  warriors  through  their  exploits  in  the 
fighting  for  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  the  chateau  passed  into  the 
possession  of  the  House  of  Metternich.  It  escaped  the 
bombardment  of  the  French  in  1684,  by  the  strategy  of  a 
quick  surrender,  but  failed  to  bear  up  under  the  less  spec- 
tacular but  more  insidious  attacks  of  an  unsentimental 
junkman.    In  1803  a  Vandal  metal  merchant  bought  the 

359 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

castle,  then  in  excellent  preservation,  for  a  few  hundred 
dollars.  Bourscheid's  subsequent  history  is  that  of  Vian- 
den  and  Esch  sur  Sure. 

When  the  grim  rider  of  the  castle  first  was  seen  is  no 
more  certain  than  the  exact  date  of  Bourscheid's  founda- 
tion. But  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  find  traditions  concern- 
ing him.  Every  household  in  the  village  has  its  own  ver- 
sion of  the  story  of  the  armored  knight  who  has  kept  silent 
vigil  about  the  castle  through  the  ages.  Of  late  years  he 
has  disappeared.  Presumably,  with  the  fall  of  Palestine 
to  the  British  during  the  war  he  felt  that  his  task  was  ac- 
complished and  left  his  century-old  home  for  more  com- 
fortable lodgings. 

It  is  worthy  of  observation  here  that  there  are  sepul- 
chral rumblings  in  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  hill  be- 
neath the  castle  floor,  far  more  persistent  than  the  clicking 
of  the  dice  in  Vianden  or  the  roaring  of  the  phantom 
artillery  at  Hollenfels. 

Fitting  subject-matter  for  a  legend,  but  alas  I  centuries 
too  late  to  obtain  the  position  in  folk-lore  that  their  im- 
mensity entitles  them  to.  Regarded  from  the  medieval 
point  of  view,  they  would  appear  as  sounds  from  hell. 
The  bones  of  the  knights  now  scattered  across  this  mound 
must  turn  over  in  their  graves  even  now  at  these  terrible 
vibrant  messages  from  below.  But  your  modern,  even 
the  imaginative  peasant  who  tends  his  goats  on  the  slopes 
and  has  little  to  occupy  his  mind  save  thought  upon  the 

360 


BOURSCHEID 

incredible  details  of  home-made  history,  listens  to  the 
noise  and  pays  it  no  attention.  He  knows  that  it  is  caused 
by  the  railroad  train  in  the  tunnel  that  runs  beneath  the 
long-forgotten  castle  crypts  and  dungeons. 

A  hedged  path  leads  into  a  grove  of  Christmas-trees, 
darts  past  a  little  white  house  that  seems  to  have  fallen 
down  from  the  village  above,  and  stops  between  two 
squat  towers  before  a  shattered  gate.  We  have  come  to 
Ragnarok,  the  twilight  of  the  gods. 

Until  Bourscheid's  crusaders  assemble  at  the  call  of 
Gabriel's  horn  there  probably  will  be  some  remnants  of 
the  castle  outlined  against  the  blue,  but  one  needs  only  to 
glance  at  it  to  see  that  in  a  few  hundred  years  it  has  fallen 
far  from  its  high  estate.  Its  turrets  are  decapitated,  its 
arches  are  broken,  its  gables  have  collapsed,  its  dungeons 
are  filled  with  accumulations  cast  down  by  fire  and 
weather.  And  over  the  grave  of  its  greatness  ivy  and 
moss  weave  a  soft  covering. 

From  the  disintegrating  ramparts  one  looks  down  a 
dizzy  distance  across  Michelau  and  the  rolling  valley 
with  its  parquet  of  orchard,  vineyard,  and  truck  patch. 
Through  it  rides  the  Sure,  a  blazing  river  where  the  sun- 
light fires  it.  Bricks  fall  one  from  the  other.  Masonry 
crumbles  as  do  the  bones  of  the  men  who  erected  it.  But 
the  glory  of  Bourscheid  is  a  thing  apart.  Schmittbourg 
the  vandal  could  not  tear  it  to  bits  and  sell  it  by  the 
pound  to  other  vandals. 

361 


CHAPTER  XXII 
ESCH-SUR-SURE 


Ghost  Bells  in  Fairyland 

Asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

— Keats. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


ESCH-SUR-SURE 


ESCH-ON-THE-SURE  needed  no  castle.  Its 
stronghold  was  carved  out  of  solid  rock  ages  be- 
fore the  coming  of  its  first  knight.  Nature,  with 
one  loop  of  a  tiny  river,  had  provided  it  in  advance  with 
an  impregnability  beyond  the  dreams  of  even  Siegfroid 
the  castle-builder.  Fosses,  water-filled  and  deeper  than 
man  could  have  devised,  guarded  its  approaches  from  be- 
low. Crags  with  saw-toothed  edges,  far  separated  and 
circled  by  perilous  chasms,  made  approach  to  it  across  the 
highlands  a  daring  feat  even  for  men  unincumbered  by 
armor.  But  its  main  strength  lay  in  another  direction: 
only  a  chosen  few  knew  where  to  look  for  it. 

For  Esch,  like  Sinbad's  valley  of  the  diamonds,  was 
lost  to  the  world  in  a  wilderness  that  few  of  the  quarrel- 
some warriors  of  feudal  days  had  the  hardihood  to  ex- 
plore. 

When  Esch  was  founded  no  one  can  guess.  It  might 
have  existed  a  century  or  two  before  its  next-door  neigh- 
bors became  aware  of  its  presence.  It  probably  did  exist, 
gathering  riches  and  therefore  power  for  the  hard-fisted 
knights  that  first  encamped  there,  while  the  county  of 
Luxemburg  was  still  considering  it  as  the  mythical  abode 

365 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

of  devil-nurtured  night-riders.  That  such  a  place  as  this 
gorge-guarded  stronghold  on  the  roof  of  the  Ardennes 
actually  had  been  built  to  house  a  splendid  retinue  of 
fighting-men  and  serfs  was  only  half  believed  long  years 
after  Henry  of  Esch  had  ridden  forth  to  the  crusades  with 
Godfrey  of  Bouillon. 

In  fireside  legend  throughout  the  land  it  took  its  place 
as  "The  Lost  City  of  the  Sure,"  its  inhabitants  were  rated 
as  supermen,  and  its  treasure-troves  were  exaggerated 
beyond  all  measure.  Investigative  wayfarers  reached  it 
after  a  time,  picking  a  fearsome  course  across  the 
mountain-tops,  but  their  return  served  only  to  give  new 
impetus  to  tales  already  in  circulation.  The  secrets 
of  Esch  were  not  common  property  until  centuries  after- 
ward. 

There  was  reason  enough  for  all  this.  The  site  of  the 
castle  is  a  wide  place  in  a  canon  of  the  Sure  where  the 
river  in  turning  has  pushed  back  its  own  walls  and  left  a 
promontory  of  rock  jutting  out  into  the  gorge.  The  mo- 
raine, before  and  after  reaching  Esch,  is  deep  and  narrow, 
with  no  foothold  between  the  river  and  the  cliffs  at  the 
bottom  of  the  abyss. 

One  who  wished  to  reach  the  castle  rock  might  have 
done  so  by  wading  the  stream,  but  few  ventured  that.  At 
first  sight  it  seemed  like  a  useless  undertaking.  There 
was  nothing  to  indicate  in  the  narrower  parts  of  the  canon 
that  the  Sure  would  ever  widen  sufficiently  to  permit  the 

366 


ESCH-SUR-SURE 

building  of  a  single  house,  let  alone  a  schloss  and  a  feudal 
town. 

So  Esch,  designed  by  Nature  as  a  wonderland,  re- 
mained as  a  fairy  tale  until  1850,  when  some  engineers, 
constructing  a  new  road  from  Ettelbruck  to  Wiltz,  cut  a 
hole  through  the  cliff  with  dynamite.  That  was  the  end 
of  Esch's  exclusiveness,  the  prosaic  solution  of  its  mys- 
teries. It  has  ever  been  thus  in  the  world's  history. 
When  pretty  legend  competes  for  honors  with  dynamite, 
the  dynamite  wins. 

A  wide-eyed  world  came  on  tiptoe  through  the  tunnel 
and  looked  in  at  the  town  as  if  surprised  to  find  it  there, 
despite  the  fact  that  by  that  time  it  was  officially  repre- 
sented on  all  the  government  maps.  But  little  was  left  of 
the  castle  when  the  gaping  citizenry  of  the  adjoining 
hamlets  dropped  through  the  hole  to  look  at  it.  Boufflers 
had  left  it  untouched.  The  various  other  destructive 
agencies  of  the  same  period  had  passed  it  by.  But  no 
gorge  is  too  deep  nor  peak  too  perilous  to  halt  the  goat- 
like flight  of  the  junkman  who  scents  his  prey. 

Sight-seers  had  to  wait  for  the  construction  of  a  tunnel 
before  they  dared  penetrate  into  the  rocky  heart  of  Esch, 
but  Walhausen  of  Arlon  had  preceded  them.  The  metals 
of  the  castle  and  all  its  furnishings  had  been  carried  over 
the  crest  piece  by  piece  and  the  walls  knocked  down  and 
sold  as  building-material.  There  must  always  be,  it 
seems,  some  one  willing  to  end  a  fairy  story  by  tearing 

367 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  page  from  the  golden  book  and  using  it  to  light  his 
pipe. 

But  if  a  fairy  tale  had  gone  when  the  world  looked  in 
upon  Esch,  an  epic  was  in  its  place. 

The  stern  towers  that  crown  the  bleak  rock  of  Esch 
could  be  nothing  but  monuments  to  a  great  house.  The 
race  that  built  them  must  have  been  imaginative  and  re- 
sourceful and  therefore  a  race  of  historical  achievement. 
Might  has  been  sculptured  in  their  designing  and  the 
suggestion  of  a  glorious  past  clings  like  the  ivy  to  their 
ruins.  There  is  a  bit  of  the  grotesque  in  their  architec- 
ture, and  a  bit  of  the  sublime. 

Two  masses  of  weather-beaten  rock  face  each  other 
belligerently  across  a  cleft  in  the  mass  beaten  out  of  the 
cliffs  by  the  anger  of  the  Sure, — one  a  prism,  square  and 
squat,  the  other  a  cylinder  that  carries  an  impression  of 
greater  architectural  pretensions.  The  abyss  between 
them  once  was  spanned  by  a  drawbridge,  but  the  years 
and  Walhausen  have  made  good  their  separation  for  all 
time.  The  ruins  of  the  old  chateau  are  behind  the  square 
tower,  a  sort  of  pen-and-ink  background  to  a  Dore  paint- 
ing. They  are  modern,  as  modernity  goes  in  the  Ardennes, 
— four  or  five  centuries  or  so  old. 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  following  its  curve  in  a  horse- 
shoe from  cliff  wall  back  to  cliff  wall,  is  the  village,  a 
straggling  town  that  clutches  desperately  at  cracks  in  the 
stone  and  seems  to  owe  its  existence  entirely  to  some 

368 


ESCH-SUR-SURE 

oversight  on  the  part  of  Vulcan  or  whatever  mighty 
smith  was  the  landscape  architect  of  this  weird  caldron. 
The  uplifting  ramparts  of  the  hill  slope  more  gently  just 
before  they  dip  into  the  river  and  it  is  on  this  lower  butt- 
ress that  the  village  has  obtained  its  foothold. 
Victor  Joly  writes : 

This  district  is  one  of  the  most  wildly  beautiful  in  all  the  Ar- 
dennes country. 

Situated  at  the  foot  of  a  deep  funnel  between  two  mountain 
tops,  the  village  is  held  in  by  abrupt  walls  that  climb  from  the 
Sure  to  the  pinnacle  of  the  rocks  where  the  ruins  of  its  romantic 
and  powerful  house  are  profiled.  Nothing  could  be  more  austere 
than  these  rocks,  enormous  and  somber,  nothing  more  imposing 
than  the  majesty  of  the  vast  ruins  of  the  countryside. 

And  here  is  a  word  from  Passmore,  who  to  a  greater  de- 
gree than  any  other  English  writer  has  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  country  : 

I  have  seen  this  picture  outlined  against  blue-black  vapors  when 
from  the  valley  behind  there  swept  up  the  purple  pageant  of  the 
storm,  and  to  see  it  so  or  to  see  it  blindingly  by  the  flash  of  lightning 
is  to  shiver.  After  rain  the  dark  rock  is  shot  with  prismatic  colors 
here  and  there.  But  when  the  snow  enshrouds  all  and  the  river 
is  silent  in  its  rocky  channel  and  the  sky  rests  rayless,  a  leaden  dome 
upon  cold  and  shallow  horizons,  then  Esch  might  serve  for  Nifl- 
heim. 

To  see  this  picture  "outlined  against  blue-black  vapors 
when  from  the  valley  behind  there  sweeps  up  the  purple 
pageant  of  the  storm,"  is  to  see  it  in  a  perfectly  natural 
mood,  for  Esch's  peaks  catch  many  a  rain-cloud  that 
would  cross  other  portions  of  the  Ardennes.     And  its 

369 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

wintry  aspect  of  Niflheim  remains  while  other  Ardennes 
towns  are  plucking  the  first  violets  of  springtime,  for  the 
sun  comes  sparingly  into  the  rocky  moraine.  Days  are 
short,  twilights  long,  summers  cool,  and  snows  persistent. 

Until  a  few  years  ago  the  tumble-down  towers  of  Esch 
and  the  refuse-strewn  nooks  in  the  walls  of  the  chateau 
were  inhabited  by  a  race  of  beggar-folk  quite  as  impossi- 
ble as  their  use  of  feudal  bones  for  shelter.  The  rough 
board  partitions  that  they  installed  in  the  ruins  still  may 
be  seen. 

They  were  expelled  by  the  Government  a  generation 
ago,  but  their  memory  is  kept  alive  in  the  community  by 
the  surnames  that  they  acquired  through  their  life  in  this 
exalted  ghetto, — the  Luxembourgeois  equivalent  of 
"Baker"  for  those  who  inhabited  the  ancient  ovens, 
"Hall"  for  the  folk  who  lived  in  the  debris  of  the  salle  des 
chevaliers,  "Tower"  for  the  families  that  crawled  for 
shelter  into  the  odd  pigeonholes  of  the  black  cylinder. 

These  people  were  true  Luxemburgers,  living  cheek 
by  jowl  with  ghosts  and  finding  no  novelty  in  the  situa- 
tion. For  there  were  plenty  of  restless  dead  on  the  hill- 
top, as  any  one  in  the  village  will  tell  you.  "Many  a  man 
is  now  alive"  who  has  heard  the  clatter  of  armor  and  the 
drumming  of  unseen  tankards  upon  invisible  table-tops 
as  the  departed  crusaders  of  Esch  hold  eerie  reunions  in 
their  crumbled  banquet  hall. 

Godfrey  of  Esch  is  said  to  have  brought  back  a  Sara- 

370 


ESCH-SUR-SURE 

pen's  head  from  one  of  his  expeditions  against  the  pagan 
to  hang  on  the  ramparts  of  his  castle  as  proof  of  his 
prowess.  Though  the  castle  has  gone  the  way  of  all 
earthly  tenements,  the  head  of  the  Saracen  seems  des- 
tined to  hang  to  the  tower  throughout  the  ages.  For  it 
keeps  coming  back. 

St.  John  Nepomucenus,  sentry  of  the  causeway  at 
Vianden,  stands  guard  at  a  single-span  bridge  across  the 
river  below  the  round  tower.  The  statue  is  life  size  and 
is  said  to  have  been  brought  to  the  town  in  1759  by  the 
Baron  de  Warsberg  of  the  Austrian  Army,  who  pur- 
chased the  estate  after  the  house  of  Esch  died  out. 

Dare  the  baleful  stare  of  the  protecting  John,  who 
seems  to  signal  an  unspoken  warning,  cross  the  bridge, 
and  follow  the  path  into  the  awesome  ravine  beyond. 
The  rocks  close  in  upon  one  another  to  a  smothering  em- 
brace, the  abyss  becomes  cavernous,  then  like  a  roofless 
tunnel  in  which  the  dark  masonry  of  nature  is  made  more 
dark  by  blue-green  coverings  of  moss  and  brush. 

Up  the  hill  the  path  leads  to  a  plateau  from  which  a 
broad  cyclorama  is  suddenly  unfolded.  Here,  hundreds 
of  years  ago,  there  stood  amid  oaks  now  vanished  a  hunt- 
ing-lodge of  the  barons  of  Esch.  One  of  them,  lately  re- 
turned from  the  foreign  wars  that  seem  to  have  been  the 
ruling  passion  of  the  house,  discovered  one  day — when 
he  came  upon  the  body  of  his  cousin,  murdered  on  the 

371 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

door-step — that  the  place  had  become  suddenly  unhealth- 
ful. 

There  was  nothing  particularly  remarkable  about  the 
assassination  of  an  Esch.  That  more  of  the  seigneurs 
did  not  die  in  the  same  fashion  was  due  to  their  extreme 
caution  in  guarding  themselves,  rather  than  to  any  love 
on  the  part  of  their  subjects.  But  the  lord  of  the  castle 
saw  in  the  fate  of  his  cousin  a  warning  that  he  could  not 
fail  to  heed.  He  turned  the  chateau  over  to  an  order  of 
monks  for  use  as  an  abbey. 

The  monks  remained  in  possession  for  less  than  a  year. 
One  night  when  they  were  gathered  in  the  chapel  for  mid- 
night offices  an  incendiary,  believed  to  have  been  the 
murderer  of  the  seigneur's  cousin,  came  to  the  place, 
turned  the  bronze  key  in  the  lock  on  the  great  door,  and 
kindled  a  fire. 

Most  of  the  monks  died  in  the  flames  before  they 
could  reach  the  windows.  Those  who  leaped  from  the 
blazing  casements  to  the  ground  were  promptly  killed  by 
a  band  of  fiendish  foresters  whose  identity  never  was 
learned. 

So  far  was  the  lodge  from  the  sleeping  village,  and  so 
well  screened  by  trees  and  rocky  dikes,  that  the  murderers 
may  have  believed  the  foul  story  of  their  evil  deed  would 
be  read  only  dimly  in  the  cold  ashes  of  a  day  to  come. 
But  the  heat  of  the  rising  flames  set  the  chapel  bell  in 

372 


ESCH-SUR-SURE 

motion  and  the  clangor  echoed  through  the  valley  with 
terrifying  insistence. 

The  village  was  aroused  and  the  half-clad  burghers 
rushed  up  the  stony  slope  to  the  rescue.  They  arrived  too 
late.  The  bodies  of  the  slain  monks  were  scattered  about 
the  clearing  in  which  the  chateau  had  stood  and  of  the 
abbey  only  the  belfry  remained.  Then  that  too  fell  and 
the  death-toll  of  the  bell  ceased. 

The  villagers  buried  the  martyrs  on  the  scene  of  the 
holocaust  and  retired  to  their  canon,  vowing  vengeance 
upon  the  evil-doers  should  they  ever  be  caught.  But  the 
band  escaped  over  the  mountains  to  continue  its  rapine 
and  murder  unmolested.  The  tale  lacks  an  ending.  To 
fit  properly  in  the  rich  lore  of  the  duchy  it  should  reach 
its  climax  in  poetic  justice  with  the  drawing  and  quarter- 
ing of  these  forest  fiends. 

But  it  does  n't.  The  tale  never  ends.  It  goes  on  for- 
ever, with  the  monks  singing  their  tenebrae  on  the  plateau 
where  they  died  and  the  simple  country-folk  reverencing 
their  memory.  At  midnight,  the  burghers  declare,  the  dis- 
mal clanging  of  the  abbey  chimes  echoes  through  the 
clefts  of  the  Sure  as  it  did  on  that  long-gone  night  of  the 
tragedy.  Ghost  songs  swell  in  the  woods  and  ghost  bells 
are  their  accompaniment. 

There  is  a  more  practical  tale  to  tell  of  the  chapel  of  St. 
Anne  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 

A  statue  had  stood  in  a  niche  in  the  rock  where  the 

373 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

chapel  has  been  erected.  How  it  came  there  no  one  knew. 
Within  the  memory  of  man  there  had  never  been  any  ex- 
planation for  it.  The  villagers  would  willingly  have  pro- 
vided some  sort  of  protection  for  it,  but  Esch  had  fallen 
into  the  clutches  of  poverty  after  the  death  of  the  last 
lord  of  the  ruling  house,  and  there  was  no  money  for  the 
building  of  a  shrine. 

Then  an  old  woman,  pious  but  poor  as  her  neighbors, 
died  and  left  "all  of  her  estate"  to  provide  the  necessary 
funds.  All  of  her  estate  proved  to  be  three  lean  goats 
worth  no  great  price  in  the  existing  market. 

The  trustees  named  in  her  will,  however,  were  men  as 
pious  as  she  had  been.  They  undertook  their  trust  as  a 
holy  work.  Under  their  administration  of  the  estate  the 
capital  stock  of  three  lean  goats  was  increased  to  three 
hundred  fat  goats.  The  sale  of  the  herd  provided  more 
than  enough  money  to  defray  the  expenses  of  building  the 
chapel. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  old  castle  towers  is  another  shrine, 
a  chapel  rebuilt  in  1906  on  the  foundations  of  a  little 
church  that  was  built  shortly  after  the  round  tower. 

The  old  chapel  was  closely  linked  with  the  destinies  of 
the  grafs  of  the  schloss. 

Whenever  death  approached  any  one  of  the  blood  of 
Esch, — even  long  years  after  the  relationships  with  the 
original  house  had  become  so  distant  that  the  descendants 
of  the  first  Henry  knew  nothing  of  their  kinship  with  him, 

374 


ESCH-SUR-SURE 

— the  chapel  would  glow  with  a  miraculous  light. 
Promptly  at  midnight  a  bent  old  priest  would  ascend  the 
altar  and  sing  a  requiem  high  mass.  Unseen  voices  would 
chant  the  responses  while  the  villagers,  hearing  the 
strange  chanting  from  afar  off,  would  kneel  and  pray, 
as  much  for  themselves  as  for  the  doomed  Esch. 

Esch  was  once  one  of  the  most  important  weaving- 
centers  in  the  Netherlands.  That  glory  has  departed 
from  it  as  the  grandeurs  of  the  castle  departed.  But  one 
feels  no  regret  over  that.  The  peace  of  the  village  is  that 
of  a  vieillard  who  has  done  his  work  well  and  retired  to 
spend  the  twilight  of  his  life  in  holy  solitude. 


375 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
CLERVAUX 


Et  Get  Fir  de  Glaf  ! 

Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ! 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires! 
God,  and  your  native  land! 

— Halleck. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

CLERVAUX 

CLERVAUX,  north  and  a  little  east  of  Esch,  is 
the  duchy's  monument  to  criminal  neglect. 
Vianden,  Bourscheid,  Esch,  and  Beaufort  com- 
bine in  a  pageant  of  ruin  that  might  be  excused  upon  the 
tenuous  plea  of  commercial  expediency.  No  such  excuse 
can  be  advanced  for  the  slow  disintegration  of  the  mighty 
chateau  where  the  Sure  and  the  Wiltz  unite. 

The  ancient  castle  stands  intact,  a  splendid  mass  of 
wall  and  buttress,  rampart  and  turret,  crowning  a  gentle 
slope  in  the  middle  of  a  peaceful  valley,  like  a  living  il- 
lustration for  "The  Idylls  of  the  King."  But  the  weather 
that  sweeps  through  its  cracks  has  played  sad  havoc  with 
treasures  that  no  one  seems  to  have  thought  it  worth  while 
to  remove.  Here  is  a  wrack  of  broken  crystal  from  a 
massive  chandelier,  rotting  leather,  tattered  and  faded 
tapestry.  Vandals  have  added  their  bit  to  the  work  of 
moisture  and  frost  in  the  slashing  of  portraits  that  may 
have  been  historic. 

The  echoing  of  smashing  glass  as  one  walks  the  ill-kept 
corridors  sounds  like  the  dismal  protest  of  the  ancient 
against  the  forgetful  present.     Continual  reminders  of 

379 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

what  Clervaux  once  was  and  easily  might  be  again  make 
it  the  most  depressing  ruin  in  the  duchy. 

Beyond  the  castle  is  the  new  chateau,  which  looks  like 
nothing  so  much  as  a  new  chateau.  In  it  lives  the  Comte 
de  Berlaymont,  who,  whatever  may  be  said  in  his  favor, 
is  no  sentimentalist.  Most  of  the  furnishings  of  the 
schloss  have  been  given  an  uncomfortable  setting  in  the 
electric-lighted,  steam-heated  mansion.  If  the  ghosts  of 
the  illustrious  Clervaux  seigneurs  prefer  their  old 
dwelling-place  to  the  new,  who  can  blame  them? 

Clervaux's  name  begins  to  appear  on  official  records 
early  in  the  history  of  the  County  of  Luxemburg.  At  the 
wedding  of  Ermesinde  a  Clervaux  battler  stood  to  the 
forefront  in  an  assemblage  of  powerful  chivalry.  An- 
other Clervaux  came  to  the  financial  aid  of  the  improvi- 
dent John  the  Blind  in  1340. 

Marriage  allied  the  house  with  Brandenbourg  and  My- 
sembourg,  whence  later  it  passed  by  similar  chance  to  the 
Count  Nicholas  de  Heu.  Godefrey  of  Eltz  assumed  its 
leadership  and  then  the  Lannoys,  under  whom  it  enjoyed 
an  era  of  renewed  prosperity.  The  Lannoys  were  famous 
men-at-arms.  One  of  their  knights  was  commander-in- 
chief  of  the  armies  of  Charles  V  and  by  conquering  Fran- 
cis I  at  Pavia  made  a  place  for  himself  in  history  so  long 
as  men  shall  read  of  the  deeds  of  men. 

The  Lannoy  blood  gave  out  near  the  end  of  the  last 

380 


CLERVAUX 

century  and  the  estate  passed  as  a  heritage  to  the  counts 
of  Berlaymont.     In  that  family  it  remains. 

Clervaux's  story  is  not  a  fairy  tale.  It  is  a  proud  re- 
cital of  a  deed  that  no  peasant  imagination  can  embell- 
ish, of  brave  men  who  made  a  supreme  sacrifice  for  a 
principle  and  fared  forth  to  be  butchered  in  as  forlorn 
a  hope  as  ever  inspired  men  to  battle. 

Clervaux  was  the  birthplace  of  the  Kloeppelkrieg,  that 
wild,  sublimely  useless  crusade  against  the  oppression  of 
the  trained  troops  of  the  French  Republicans.  Men  of 
steel  were  bred  in  these  hard  hills  of  the  Oesling.  They 
never  forgot  that  they  were  men. 

"Et  get  fir  de  glaf  I  [Here  goes  for  the  faith!]"  was 
the  slogan  on  their  lips  as  they  armed  themselves  with 
cudgels  and  scythes  and  axes  and  swept  up  this  fair 
valley  against  the  gunpowder  and  shot  of  the  invader. 

They  fought  as  only  the  despairing  can  fight,  asking 
no  quarter  and  giving  none,  compensating  for  inequality 
of  weapons  with  a  superb  disregard  for  death  and  push- 
ing back  an  army  too  shocked  by  the  ferocity  of  the  peas- 
ants' onset  to  realize  its  own  superiority. 

In  Clervaux  as  in  other  sleepy  valleys  of  Luxemburg 
one  comes  upon  one  of  those  hinges  of  history.  A  few 
guns,  a  few  handfuls  of  powder  and  lead  in  the  hands 
of  these  maddened  farmer-lads,  and  the  geography  of  the 
world  would  have  undergone  a  new  revision.  There 
would  have  come  a  turning-point  in  the  success  of  the 

381 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

French  Revolution.     There  might — who  knows? — have 
been  no  Napoleon. 

But  the  peasants  had  no  powder. 

For  two  hours  they  cut  a  bloody  path  into  the  ranks  of 
the  revolutionists,  who  company  by  company  fell  back 
only  to  find  relief  in  the  advancing  of  fresh  reserves.  For 
two  hours  the  generals  of  France  considered  the  problems 
that  they  must  encounter  in  a  complete  withdrawal. 
Then  human  muscle  and  hickory  club  reached  the  limit  of 
achievement.  French  artillery  blasted  the  Kloeppel 
Armee  aside.  French  bayonets  came  forward  in  an  un- 
wavering line  to  complete  the  slaughter  that  bullets  had 
started.  The  backbone  of  the  peasants'  war  was  broken 
at  Arzfeld  on  a  field  that  resembled  the  floor  of  an  abat- 
toir. 

A  story  is  told  of  one  of  the  unfortunate  scythe-men 
who  fled  before  the  Republican  advance  and  took  refuge 
in  a  hollow  tree.  He  escaped  detection  but  was  too  weak 
to  drag  himself  out  of  the  hole.  So  he  remained  there 
until  he  starved  to  death.  His  skeleton  and  the  iron- 
tipped  cudgel  that  he  had  carried  to  the  last  were  found 
years  afterward  by  a  farmer. 

His  companions  in  arms  who  could  find  no  hollow 
trees  in  which  to  hide  experienced  no  easier  fate.  They 
wxre  captured,  taken  to  Luxemburg  city,  and  given  a 
mock  trial  before  a  military  tribunal.    Opportunity  was 

.^82 


CLERVAUX 

given  them  to  escape  execution  by  embracing  the  cause 
of  their  enemies.    But  to  a  man  they  refused. 

"We  cannot  lie,"  was  the  answer  of  their  spokesman. 
"We  die  as  men  should  die." 

And  die  as  men  they  did, — the  few  score  who  had  not 
already  died  the  death  of  heroes  at  Arzfeld.  They  were 
beheaded  in  a  trench  outside  the  ramparts  of  the  capital. 

The  shaft  erected  to  their  memory  is  one  of  Clervaux's 
most  imposing  relics.  One  of  the  plaques  on  the  monu- 
ment shows  these  aroused  countrymen  clasping  their 
homely  weapons  as  they  kneel  before  the  uplifted  Host, 
asking  a  blessing  upon  their  cause.  And  beneath  this 
picture  is  the  inscription: 

Es  ist  besser  dass  wir  fallen  im  Kampfe  als  dass  wir 
sehen  das  Ungluck  unseres  Volkes  unt  Heiligtumes. 

"It  is  better  to  fall  in  battle  than  to  see  the  woes  of  our 
people  and  the  sanctuary." 

A  second  tablet  is  commemorative  of  the  court  martial 
of  the  heroes  in  Luxemburg  city.  And  this  bears  the 
legend:    Wir  konnen  nicht  lugen. 

"We  cannot  lie!" 

From  the  base  of  the  monument  one  looks  across  an  out- 
cropping of  the  grim  Oesling,  the  Thor-sculptured  North- 
land, a  scarp  of  tumbled  schist,  a  black  band  of  pine  for- 
est, and  one  beholds  a  picture.  Clervaux,  castle  and  con- 
vent, is  set  like  a  luminous  bloodstone  on  a  cushion  of 

383 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

green  satin ;  about  the  chateau  lies  the  village  of  pink  and 
white,  in  the  embrace  of  a  gold-spangled  river. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  is  the  peace  that  succeeds  the 
trials  of  bloodshed  better  typified  than  here.  Clervaux 
is  a  place  of  whispering  quiet,  of  flowery  odors,  and  of 
chapel  bells  that  seem  always  to  echo  from  a  musical  dis- 
tance. In  such  a  vale  might  have  walked  the  Monk 
Felix  to  whom  a  hundred  years  seemed  but  a  minute  as  he 
meditated  in  the  presence  of  God.  Here  is  the  peace 
"which  passeth  all  understanding."  And  yet  it  was  only 
yesterday  that  Clervaux's  sons  said  hurried  good-bys  and 
hastened  to  Ettelbruck  to  entrain  for  the  South.  It  was 
only  yesterday  that  the  growling  of  the  guns  at  Liege  and 
Namur  rumbled  through  the  northern  Ardennes. 

To-day  great-grandsons  of  the  cudgel  warriors  lie 
under  the  poppies  in  Flanders,  with  the  cocarde  of  France 
on  the  crosses  at  their  heads.  They  died  fighting  side  by 
side  with  great-grandsons  of  the  invaders  who  crushed 
the  Kloeppelkrieg.  Motives  seem  to  get  all  mixed  up  in 
a  hundred  years. 

Yet  principles  are  not  changed.  The  battle-cry  of 
these  youths  who  died  for  France  is  what  would  be  ex- 
pected of  Clervaux's  sons. 

"Etgetfirdeglaf!" 


384 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
BEAUFORT 


The  Splendid  Romance  of  Jean  Beck 

To  enlarge  or  illustrate   this  power  and  effect 
of  love  is  to  set  a  candle  in  the  sun. 

— Burton. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


BEAUFORT 


FROM  Miillerthal  in  Little  Switzerland,  where 
the  eternal  waters  jeer  at  the  ghostly  plaint  of 
Griselinde  of  Heringerburg,  the  quiet  vale  of  the 
Hallerbach  beckons  the  wanderer.  Plush  mosses  and 
ferns  as  countless  as  the  laces  of  Brittany  carpet  its 
shadowy  rocks.  Splashes  of  color,  a  chiaroscuro  of  flow- 
ery tint,  give  relief  to  its  green-gray  twilight.  The 
Romans  are  gone,  but  in  such  a  place  as  this  the  nymphs 
of  woodland  and  brook  live  on  undisturbed  by  the  politi- 
cal cataclysms  of  the  centuries. 

Indefinitely  the  watery  guide  leads  on  through  a  won- 
derland of  shrub  and  stone  that  stops  the  clock  and  dims 
one's  eyes  to  landmarks.  There  is  no  time.  There  is  no 
distance. 

Then  suddenly  the  veiling  flowers  and  mosses  fall 
away.  The  rocks  of  the  glen  stand  huge  and  gaunt  and 
naked  in  the  sun  like  Titans  dipping  into  the  little  river 
for  a  bath.  The  Hallerbach  turns  to  the  left.  Taupes- 
bach,  cascading  over  its  rocks,  beckons  to  a  grimmer 
canon.  The  flowers  no  longer  mark  the  course  and  no 
arching  greenery  hides   the   sun.      Taupesbach   strikes 

387 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

deeper  into  its  rocks  and  becomes  silent.     And  then  is 
heard  the  murmuring  of  a  mill-wheel. 

Out  of  nowhere  comes  a  white  stone  bridge  to  dart 
across  the  stream.  The  walls  of  the  glen  close  in,  only 
to  widen  again  in  unforseen  vastness,  opening  a  vista  of  a 
quiet  lake  covered  with  rushes  and  pond-lilies,  green- 
cloaked  bluffs,  a  village,  and  a  castle. 

This  is  Beaufort,  a  schloss  of  song  and  story,  in  a  way 
the  most  notable  example  of  medieval  architecture  which 
Boufflers  left  to  posterity. 

Its  slender  towers  and  long  windows  give  it  a  Gothic 
grace.  Its  carefully  constructed  masonry  marks  it  for  the 
stronghold  of  men  of  culture  who  sought  a  home  as  well  as 
a  tower  of  strength  against  their  enemies.  There  is  a 
white  cleanness  about  it  that  is  lacking  in  other  castles. 
Cleanness  of  line,  cleanness  of  finish. 

Apparently  it  sacrificed  nothing  of  its  endurance  to  the 
demands  of  architectural  nicety  and  interior  finish. 
Smooth  as  were  its  walls,  delicate  as  were  its  towers,  it 
stands  better  preserved  than  the  more  massive  Bour- 
scheid  and  the  more  inaccessible  Brandenbourg. 

Adjoining  it  is  a  castle  of  the  seventeenth  century  still 
habitable,  with  a  slate-roofed  tower  and  a  complement  of 
lesser  buildings  set  cloister-like  about  a  wide  court. 
Modern  Beaufort  has  inherited  a  ghost,  the  White  Lady 
who  walks  the  hill  at  the  foot  of  its  towers,  but  without 
her  it  would  have  no  lack  of  legend.    The  old  building 

388 


BEAUFORT 

is  now  used  in  the  manufacture  of  Kirschengeist  and  if 
any  spirit  possesses  the  power  of  raising  less  material 
spirits,  it  is  Kirsch. 

The  family  of  Beaufort  is  an  oifshoot  from  that  of 
Wiltz.  The  castle  is  doubtless  of  very  ancient  origin, 
but  the  first  record  of  the  existence  of  its  knights  is  found 
under  the  date  of  1236,  when  one  of  the  Beaufort  (or 
Befort)  seigneurs  signed  the  charte  d' affranchissement 
given  to  the  city  of  Echternach  by  the  Princess  Erme- 
sinde. 

Another  historical  mention  of  the  Beaufort  family  is 
found  in  1593,  when  Gaspard  de  Heu,  lord  of  the  castle, 
joined  with  Vianden  in  the  support  of  Orange  against 
Philip  II.  Gaspard  was  beheaded  and  the  castle  was 
bestowed  by  Philip  upon  Mansfeld,  his  governor  at  Lux- 
emburg city. 

Five  decades  later  Beaufort  castle  once  more  became  a 
palace  of  romance.  With  its  history  from  that  point  in- 
tertwines the  strange  story  of  Jean  Beck,  the  shepherd* 
boy  who  rose  to  power  but  little  short  of  sovereignty. 

It  was  a  woman  who  started  Jean  the  shepherd  on 
the  road  to  glory,  a  fruit-seller  as  humble  as  himself.  But 
the  tale  is  a  bit  different  from  the  usual  recital  of  the  self- 
sacrificing  inspiration  of  sweetheart  and  wife.  This  girl 
was  as  uncultured  as  she  was  lowborn.  She  married 
Beck  only  as  a  means  of  achieving  a  great  ambition, — to 

389 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

increase  her  fruit  business  until  she  had  the  largest  apple 
counter  in  all  the  duchy. 

She  was  a  daughter  of  the  capital  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage  and  despite  the  importunities  of  her  husband, 
who  saw  opportunities  farther  afield,  in  Luxemburg  city 
she  stayed.  For  the  sake  of  romance  we  should  overlook 
one  phase  of  her  character  which  seems  to  be  a  bit  out  of 
the  picture.  Mrs.  Jean  Beck  was  something  of  a  shrew, 
and  as  her  temper  grew  worse  so  did  her  appearance.  She 
became  noted  as  a  slattern  even  among  the  other  market- 
women,  who  were  not  exactly  models  of  feminine  charm 
themselves. 

Spurred  on  by  this  inspiring  home  life,  Jean  Beck  set 
out  to  make  a  memorable  name  for  himself.  One  evening 
when  Mrs.  Beck  had  climaxed  a  stirring  argument  by 
striking  him  on  the  head  with  a  faggot,  Jean  heard  the 
call  of  glory.  He  packed  all  his  goods  in  a  pocket  hand- 
kerchief and  deserted  her. 

He  joined  the  Austrian  Army  and  went  adventuring. 
One  night  he  overheard  a  plot  against  the  emperor.  Na- 
tive shrewdness  suggested  his  course.  He  promptly  ig- 
nored all  his  superior  officers,  from  corporal  to  field- 
marshal,  sought  an  audience  with  His  Majesty  himself, 
and  laid  bare  the  details  of  the  conspiracy.  The  would-be 
assassins  were  captured  and  executed  and  Private  Jean 
Beck  was  rocketed  out  of  obscurity. 

When  the  flames  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War  had  begun 

390 


BEAUFORT 

to  spread  across  Europe,  Jean  was  a  field-marshal  with  a 
natural  gift  for  strategy  and  mass  action  that  made  him  a 
hero.  He  came  back  to  Luxemburg  city  as  governor  of 
the  duchy. 

A  queer  romance,  this!  The  love  interest  in  it  seems 
to  be  all  mixed  up.  But  the  story  straightens  itself  out 
in  the  end. 

Jean  Beck  the  conquering  hero  rode  into  the  land  of  his 
fathers  with  thousands  of  fighting-men  at  his  back  and 
cheering  multitudes  spreading  roses  in  welcome  before 
him.  The  grand  knights  of  fifty  castles  were  waiting  to 
dip  their  banners  in  his  honor  and  lay  their  swords  at  his 
feet  in  a  grand  ceremonial  in  the  public  square  of  the 
city.  But  suddenly,  at  the  moment  of  his  triumph,  he 
slipped  from  his  dancing  war-horse  and  disappeared. 

He  moved  unnoticed  through  the  throngs  that  were 
shouting  praises  to  his  name  and  moved  straightway  to 
the  market-place. 

At  her  stall  next  the  fish  market  stood  the  heroine  of  his 
youthful  love,  still  slattern,  still  bitter  of  tongue,  and 
withered  more  than  a  little  by  the  winters  that  had 
passed  since  his  departure. 

There  was  sadness  in  her  eyes  and  wounded  pride  in 
her  voice  as  she  talked  with  the  other  dames  of  the  mar- 
ket. She  had  heard  the  name  of  the  new  governor  and 
she  did  not  doubt  his  identity.  She  listened  sneeringly 
to  the  tumult  in  the  square. 

391 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

**Jean  Beck  will  sit  in  his  castle,"  she  declared  protest- 
ingly.  "Jean  Beck  the  shepherd  will  call  and  the  proud 
ladies  of  Luxemburg  will  come  to  him  without  shame. 
And  the  woman  he  took  to  wife  will  sit  here  and  sell 
apples  and  grapes  and  sleep  in  a  hovel." 

"Yes,"  said  the  fish-lady,  who  was  a  student  of  the 
world  and  something  of  a  philosopher,  "so  he  will.  He 
will  forget " 

A  quick  step  and  the  clank  of  armor  startled  them. 
Both  women  turned,  to  see  a  plumed  knight  resplendent 
in  trappings  of  gold  and  silver.  The  knight  lifted  his 
visor  and  Jean  Beck  the  shepherd-boy  and  governor 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  his  first  love. 

"Jean  Beck  does  not  forget,"  he  stated  with  great 
calmness.  "Jean  Beck  will  sit  in  his  palace,  but  only 
one  woman  in  the  world  has  the  right  to  sit  by  his  side. 
Marie,  will  you  come  back  to  me*?" 

Too  startled  for  speech,  too  overjoyed  even  to  release 
the  tears  that  welled  to  her  eyes,  Marie  threw  herself 
into  the  arms  of  her  knight.  Still  clad  in  the  humble 
garments  of  the  market-place  she  followed  him  back 
to  the  grand  square  and  by  his  side  received  the  homage 
of  the  nobles. 

Jean  Beck  bought  Beaufort  as  a  personal  estate  and 

4    erected  the  modern  wing.     There  he  and  his  wife,  now 

old  enough  to  know  the  meaning  and  necessity  of  mutual 


H 

•^ 

Pi 

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c 

t3 

o 

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U2 

w 

-tJ 

ffl 

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BEAUFORT 

sacrifice,  lived  many  happy  years  before  the  shepherd- 
boy  field-marshal  died  at  Arras. 

The  castle  stood  in  excellent  condition  until  it  was 
purchased  by  the  Count  de  Lidekerke-Beaufort,  who  tore 
down  a  portion  of  it  to  get  materials  for  the  construction 
of  a  mill.  The  villagers  followed  his  lead  and  it  was 
only  when  the  count  died  and  a  more  sentimental  owner 
acquired  the  estate  that  the  vandalism  was  checked. 

The  White  Lady  is  a  wraith  whose  identity  never  has 
been  definitely  settled.  Why  her  ghost  still  flits  behind 
the  long  windows  depends  entirely  upon  the  peasant 
who  tells  you  the  story.  She  is  everybody,  from  a  Grafin 
slain  by  the  artillery  of  the  Grand  Monarch  to  a  lady-in- 
waiting  who  was  betrayed  by  an  unscrupulous  seneschal 
and  hanged  herself  from  the  battlements. 

One  explanation  makes  her  Marie  the  wife  of  Jean 
Beck,  and  ascribes  her  inability  to  remain  in  her  grave  to 
remorse  for  the  shrewishness  which  transformed  the  sim- 
ple shepherd-boy  into  the  mighty  warrior.  But  perhaps 
there  is  still  another  way  to  account  for  the  apparition. 
Moonlight  on  white  walls  has  been  known  to  produce 
visions  of  "White  Ladies"  elsewhere  than  below  the 
bastions  of  Beaufort. 


393 


CHAPTER  XXV 
HERINGERBURG 


The  Lady  of  the  Magical  Voice 

The  devil  hath  not  in  all  his  quiver's  choice 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  like  a  sweet  voice. 

— Byron. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


HERINGERBURG 


THERE  used  to  be  a  castle  at  Heringerburg — 
parts  of  the  foundations  still  may  be  seen  there 
— where  lived  Griselinde  of  the  magic  voice. 

A  rotund  denizen  of  the  Mullerthal  told  me  the  story 
in  a  basso-profundo  that  set  the  Petite  Suisse  to  echoing, 
punctuating  his  recital  by  banging  the  oaken  table  with 
a  stein,  after  the  approved  fashion  of  rural  entertainers. 

"The  most  marvelous  voice  in  the  world,  she  had,"  he 
declared.  "I  have  heard  some  very  good  singers  in  the 
concerts  in  Luxemburg  city,  but  none  of  them  could  boast 
of  such  a  voice  as  Griselinde  had.  The  angels  taught  her 
to  sing  and  no  mortal  has  ever  sung  so  well  since. 

"But  she  was  proud  of  her  accomplishments,  with  the 
sort  of  pride  that  has  very  little  to  do  with  angels." 

He  paused  to  thump  the  stein  with  an  emphatic  ges- 
ture. 

"By  some  means  she  obtained  the  magical  gift  of  pun- 
ishing her  critics.  A  word  of  adverse  comment  and  the 
unappreciative  listener  was  turned  into  stone.  Perhaps 
the  angels  did  that.  The  golden  voice  was  their  gift. 
Perhaps  they  retained  the  right  to  chastise  those  who 
spoke  ill  of  their  handiwork. 

397 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"At  any  rate,  such  was  the  case,  and  to  this  day  you 
may  see  boulders  at  the  foot  of  the  old  Heringerburg 
rock,  said  to  be  the  transformed  bodies  of  those  who  did 
not  like  Griselinde's  singing.  She  was  beautiful,  but  she 
was  proud.     Oh,  very  proud." 

Bump,  bump,  bump  sounded  the  great  stein. 

"Many  men  loved  her  I"  Bump,  bump,  bump  I  "And 
why  not?    She  was  as  beautiful  as  she  was  musical. 

"But  although  they  were  as  numerous  as  the  liquid 
notes  of  Griselinde's  song,  she  declared  that  they  were 
as  one  so  far  as  their  matrimonial  prospects  were  con- 
cerned.   She  ordered  them  to  go  and  leave  her  in  peace. 

"Then  one  day  came  a  young  graf  from  Pettingen. 
He  was  a  handsome  youth,  straight  and  strong,  with  hair 
as  dark  as  a  blackbird's  wing.  He  wore  gilded  armor 
and  carried  a  great  sword  that  showed  the  marks  of  many 
battles, — truly,  a  hero  of  the  sort  to  appeal  to  any  young 
woman!  He  had  only  one  defect:  he  had  no  ear  for 
music. 

"He  loved  to  hear  Griselinde  sing,  but  that  was  be- 
cause she  was  Griselinde  and  he  was  in  love. 

"Her  father  did  not  favor  him  greatly,  for  the  wars 
with  the  Saracens  had  cost  him  nearly  all  of  his  patri- 
mony and  the  Count  of  Heringerburg  felt  a  father's 
natural  solicitude  over  making  a  good  match  for  his 
daughter.  But  even  in  those  days  love  was  superior  to 
the  match-making  instincts  of  parents. 

398 


HERINGERBURG 

"Griselinde  succeeded  in  signifying  to  the  youth  from 
Pettingen  that  she  reciprocated  the  love  which  he  flashed 
to  her  from  his  dark  eyes.  At  night  she  would  stand  in 
the  balcony  outside  her  chamber  window  and  sing  to 
him.  Down  in  the  valley  he  would  sit  in  the  shadows 
and  listen,  enraptured. 

"One  night  he  grew  emboldened  and  decided  to  go 
to  her  in  spite  of  the  guards  at  the  gates  of  the  castle. 
He  started  to  scale  the  precipice.  It  was  a  perilous  climb 
in  daylight,  for  the  steep  rocks  came  down  in  those  days 
as  straight  as  a  wall.  At  night  it  was  close  to  impossible. 
But  the  knight  was  in  love  and  he  lacked  nothing  in 
bravery. 

"Though  forced  to  feel  in  the  darkness  for  footholds 
in  the  precipice,  he  crept  up  and  up  until  the  valley  was 
a  black  nothing  below  him  and  the  sky  above  an  impene- 
trable void.  He  was  almost  at  the  top  of  the  castle  wall 
when  the  beautiful  Griselinde  came  out  as  usual  to  sing 
to  him.  She  did  not  know  that  he  was  only  a  few  meters 
below  her.  He  had  failed  to  remember  that  she  would 
appear  almost  within  whispering  distance.  Her  burst  of 
song  struck  his  unattuned  ear  without  warning. 

"He  shook  with  sudden  shock  and  then,  excited  by  his 
climb  and  the  closeness  of  the  castle  guards,  he  called  out 
to  her: 

"  'Stop  that  caterwauling  or  you  will  be  the  death  of 
me.' 

399 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"She  ceased  to  sing,  but  she  was  the  death  of  him  any- 
way. He  felt  his  fingers  stiffen  and  a  sudden  chill  creep 
toward  his  heart.  He  slid  from  his  precarious  roost  and 
plunged  out  into  the  black  toward  the  valley.  Grisel- 
inde  hastened  down  the  rocky  pathway  in  front  of  the 
schloss,  to  his  side.  But  she  did  not  need  to  see  the  silent 
stone  figure  in  the  river-bed  to  know  that  her  dream  of 
love  had  flown  forever. 

"She  went  sadly  back  to  her  balcony  and  sang  a  long 
chant  of  farewell. 

"Never  had  Heringerburg  heard  such  a  song.  It  filled 
the  valley  and  echoed  in  the  hills  and  the  birds  wept  with 
the  grief  of  it.  When  she  had  finished,  men  and  women 
and  little  children  sat  weeping  in  their  homes,  moved  be- 
yond all  explanation  by  that  wonder-song. 

"It  was  her  last  song,  mein  Herr.  She  died  of  a  broken 
heart  some  years  later.  But  until  they  laid  her  in  a 
casket  her  golden  voice  was  hushed. 

"Sometimes  she  comes  back,  they  say.  She  comes  to 
stand  in  the  ruins  of  the  castle  and  sing  to  the  black  rock 
that  is  said  to  be  the  remains  of  the  Graf  of  Pettingen. 
And  when  she  sings  it  is  a  potent  sign  that  some  maiden 
in  the  village  is  to  have  an  unhappy  marriage." 

He  rocked  the  stein  meditatively  on  its  broad  base 
and  sighed  as  if  in  Griselinde  and  her  knight  he  had 
known  a  pair  of  personal  friends  whose  tragic  fate  af- 

400 


HERINGERBURG 

fected   him   more    than    words — even   the   polysyllabic 
words  of  Luxemburg — could  hope  to  describe. 

There  are  other  creepy  stories  told  of  the  robber  barons 
of  Heringerburg.  You  can  hear  them  in  any  hamlet  in  the 
vicinity  as  any  toothless  crone  prepares  a  draught  of 
Malzkaffee  on  her  funny  little  stove.  Most  of  them 
concern  Konrad,  quite  the  bloodiest  old  pirate  of  an  en- 
crimsoned  house. 

Konrad  was  a  past  master  of  pillage,  who  made  his 
wars  close  to  home  and  reaped  great  revenue  thereby 
without  having  to  support  an  expensive  retinue.  Every- 
body in  the  neighborhood  hated  him. 

But  the  eternal  law  of  compensation  worked  as  well  in 
the  case  of  Konrad  as  it  seems  always  to  have  worked  in 
the  shaping  of  human  destinies.  Konrad  had  a  daughter 
who  was  as  virtuous  and  lovable  as  he  was  hateful.  She 
went  about  doing  good  in  the  very  districts  where  his 
cruelty  and  rapacity  had  wrought  untold  evil. 

Every  one  loved  Adelinde,  especially  the  Seigneur 
Klaus  of  Mersch,  whom  she  favored  above  all  the  others. 
Everything  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  match  would 
come  to  the  usual  happy  ending,  when  Konrad  became 
incensed  at  Klaus.  The  Graf  of  Heringerburg  waited  un- 
til one  day  when  the  Seigneur  of  Mersch  came  into  his 
district  to  hunt.  Then  without  warning  he  waylaid  him, 
carried  him  to  his  donjon  keep,  and  buried  him  in  a  deep 
pit. 

401 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

For  several  days  Klaus  remained  there,  subsisting  on 
bread  and  water,  while  his  retainers  at  Mersch  thought 
that  the  earth  had  swallowed  him,  as  indeed  it  had.  One 
day,  however,  Adelinde  stole  down  to  the  dungeons,  re- 
leased the  prisoner,  took  him  to  a  postern-gate,  and  set 
him  free.  So  cleverly  was  the  escape  effected  that  Kon- 
rad  the  swashbuckler  continued  to  drink  ribald  toasts 
each  day  to  his  ''prisoner,"  not  suspecting  that  the  dark 
hole  under  the  castle  was  empty. 

Konrad  in  the  meantime  had  sounded  the  call  of  his 
clan. 

From  the  valleys  of  the  Eisch,  the  Alzette,  and  the 
Mamer  rode  hundreds  of  men-at-arms,  splendidly 
mounted  and  richly  equipped.  Tried  warriors  were 
these  horsemen,  hardened  by  long  campaigning  against 
the  paynim.  Every  castle  in  the  deep  clefts  that  joined 
at  Mersch  disgorged  a  troop  of  them  and  presently  Klaus 
rode  toward  the  gorge  of  Kasselbach  at  the  head  of  as 
splendid  a  force  as  ever  set  out  to  do  battle  in  Luxem- 
burg. The  knights  of  Eels  were  there,  and  Pettingen, 
Schoenfels,  Hollenfels,  Mysembourg.  Ansembourg, 
Beaufort,  and  Septfontaines, — the  finest  of  the  chivalry 
of  the  southern  Ardennes. 

Konrad  from  his  lofty  roost  watched  them  defile  into 
the  canon  below,  a  thread  of  silver  and  gold  where  the 
sun  was  thrown  back  from  shield  and  breastplate  and 
lance,  a  picture  wonderful  in  its  beauty  and  terrible  in  its 

402 


HERINGERBURG 

menace.  But  he  gave  little  thought  to  the  splendor  of 
the  sight  and  his  own  peril  worried  him  not  a  bit. 

He  laughed  at  the  pomposity  of  these  warriors  who 
presently  would  be  sending  forward  a  knight  under  a 
white  flag  to  demand  that  he  give  up  Klaus.  His  garri- 
son was  small  and  not  remarkably  well  equipped.  But 
so  long  as  he  held  Klaus  he  held  the  whip-hand.  At  any 
time  that  he  chose,  he  told  himself,  he  could  end  the  siege 
by  threatening  the  death  of  the  hostage  he  held  in  the 
person  of  the  seigneur  of  Mersch. 

He  was  still  chuckling  to  himself  when  he  went  out  to 
the  ramparts  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the  approaching 
knights.  He  took  only  one  look,  then  ran  back  into  the 
stony  corridors,  shouting  for  Adelinde.  He  had  recog- 
nized the  man  who  rode  at  the  head  of  the  enemy  column 
and  that  man  was  Klaus,  whom  he  had  believed  to  be 
shut  up  safely  within  the  bowels  of  the  mountain. 

Adelinde  paid  the  penalty  for  her  love.  The  irate 
father  dragged  her  to  the  oubliette  where  Klaus  had 
been  imprisoned,  and  hurled  her  into  it.  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  walls  to  wield  the  pitch-ladle  and  encourage 
his  terror-stricken  archers. 

The  battle  was  of  short  duration.  The  Heringerburg 
garrison  was  insufficient  to  man  the  walls  against  a  force 
of  picked  men  such  as  that  mustered  in  the  three  valleys. 

Nimble-footed  swordsmen  scaled  the  cliff  on  one  side, 

403 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

where  attack  was  least  expected,  while  the  main  force 
attacked  across  the  fosse  at  the  main  gate. 

In  the  gray  light  of  the  dawn  they  rode  to  the  on- 
slaught, an  irresistible  cavalcade.  The  castle  archers 
found  themselves  suddenly  set  upon  from  behind.  The 
lead-ladles  dropped  from  dead  hands  into  the  valley 
below.  The  drawbridge  creaked  down  across  the  fosse 
and  a  score  of  torch-men  clattered  into  Heringerburg  to 
set  a  blaze  that  was  shortly  to  be  visible  from  one  cor- 
ner of  the  duchy  to  the  other.  Konrad,  wounded  but 
still  defiant,  surrendered  as  the  first  wreath  of  smoke 
from  the  lower  chambers  of  his  doomed  stronghold  was 
wafted  up  to  the  parapet  where  he  stood  amid  his  dead 
bowmen. 

"Where  is  Adelinde'?"  demanded  Klaus  of  Mersch. 

"You  should  know,"  replied  Konrad. 

There  was  little  time  for  parley  between  the  two 
knights,  for  the  fire  was  biting  into  the  dry  old  rafters  of 
the  building.  In  a  very  few  minutes  they  had  patched  up 
a  truce  whereby  Konrad  was  given  his  life  in  exchange 
for  information  concerning  the  location  of  his  daugh- 
ter's prison.  Klaus  rescued  Adelinde,  allowing  her 
father  to  ride  unscathed  through  the  ranks  of  the  dis- 
appointed knights,  and  remained  to  complete  the  de- 
struction of  Heringerburg. 

Adelinde  and  Klaus  were  married  that  night.  Their 
life  was  happy  and  peaceful,  as  peace  was  measured  in 

404 


HERINGERBURG 

those  days,  and  they  thought  no  more  of  the  disorderly 
Graf  of  Heringerburg  until  one  night  a  pilgrim  came  to 
their  gate  begging  food  and  a  night's  lodging.  It  was 
Konrad.  He  had  come  back  from  the  Holy  Wars,  footsore 
and  penniless,  a  sorry  wreck  of  the  overlord  who  once  had 
spread  terror  through  a  dozen  counties. 

Klaus  looked  at  him  and  was  suddenly  aware  of  a 
bond  that  few  psychologists  mention  in  their  ponder- 
ous works  and  none  explain, — the  tie  that  exists  between 
men  who  have  engaged  in  a  life-and-death  struggle. 

"Konrad,"  boomed  Klaus,  in  surprise. 

''Klaus,"  murmured  Konrad,  in  penitence. 

"Come  in,"  invited  Klaus.  "This  house  is  yours  so 
long  as  you  choose  to  stay  here." 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  the  bloody  Konrad  spent 
the  last  days  of  his  life  telling  fairy  stories  to  the  children 
of  the  village. 

A  battery  of  the  German  crown-prince's  field  artillery 
recently  established  a  field  kitchen  over  his  grave. 


405 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
LA  ROCHETTE 


FOUR-AND-TWENTY  BLACKBIRDS  BaKED  IN  A  PlE 

All  tenantless  save  to  the  crannying  wind. 

— Byron. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


LA  ROCHETTE 


ONE  of  the  Strangest  railroads  in  the  world 
climbs  the  hills  over  the  ancient  trail  of  the 
chevaliers  from  Cruchten  to  La  Rochette.  Of- 
ficially its  title  is  the  Chemin  de  Fer  Vicinal  Cruchten- 
Fels ;  too  long  a  name  for  so  short  a  railroad.  During  the 
American  occupation  it  received  a  more  descriptive  if 
less  elegant  title :  "The  Bubble  and  Squeak." 

Its  tea-pot  locomotive,  leaking  steam  like  a  peanut- 
roaster,  travels  in  a  cloud  of  its  own  manufacture,  a  fog 
which  on  cold  days  is  so  dense  that  the  engineer  can 
scarcely  see  the  crooked  little  rust-streaks  ahead  of  him. 
The  coaches  are  a  bit  larger  than  the  cars  of  a  Coney 
Island  roller-coaster  and  seem  older  than  Vianden. 
They  protest  rheumatically  every  meter  of  the  climb,  a 
plaint  that  on  the  curves  becomes  fearfully  like  the  wail 
of  a  death-agony.  Somehow  they  hold  together,  which 
might  be  taken  as  proof  that  the  fairy  Melusine  still 
watches  over  the  destinies  of  Luxemburg  and  that  all 
is  right  with  the  world. 

The  cars  were  last  painted  the  year  before  the  Roman 
invasion.    But  the  paint  apparently  was  war-time  qual- 

409 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

ity,  for  not  enough  of  it  remains  to  permit  a  guess  as  to 
its  original  color. 

In  one  respect,  at  least,  The  Bubble  and  Squeak  re- 
sembles the  great  railroads  of  the  duchy.  Its  conductor 
and  engineer  are  sticklers  for  the  etiquette  that  governs 
the  purchase  and  presentation  of  tickets. 

One  must  always  purchase  a  ticket  before  entraining. 
Should  he  be  a  bit  late  in  arriving  at  the  terminal,  all  he 
has  to  do  is  to  signal  the  train  crew.  They  will  delay 
their  start  any  number  of  minutes  until  he  attends  to 
the  fare-paying  ceremonial  in  the  station.  And  woe  be- 
tide the  unfortunate  traveler  who  fails  to  avail  himself  of 
this  politeness  I 

Once  I  neglected  to  buy  my  twenty-five  centimes' 
worth  of  transportation  in  advance.  The  Bubble  and 
Squeak  was  just  whistling  its  farewell  to  Cruchten  as  I 
ran  across  the  platform.  So,  instead  of  halting  the  depar- 
ture, I  swung  aboard  the  rear  platform  of  the  second  and 
last  coach  and  seated  myself,  complacent  in  my  belief 
that  a  cash  fare  would  cover  my  delinquency. 

But  I  was  disillusioned.  There  came  presently  a  gilt- 
laced  functionary  to  demand  my  ticket.  I  explained 
that  I  had  none,  but  that  I  would  pay  him  the  twenty- 
five  centimes  with  whatever  penalty  was  customary  for 
payment  on  a  mileage  basis.  And  never,  though  I  live  to 
be  as  ancient  as  the  Bubble  and  Squeak  itself,  shall  I 
forget  his  look  of  disdain. 

410 


LA  ROCHETTE 

I  experienced  all  the  sensations  of  the  felon  at  the  bar 
of  justice;  the  cowardice  of  the  murderer  who  stabs  from 
behind;  the  inexplicable  moral  collapse  of  one  who  spills 
the  soup  in  the  lap  of  his  hostess. 

He  left  me  with  a  Prussian  shrug  too  terrible  to  con- 
template and  marched  up  to  the  head  of  the  train  to  tell 
the  engineer  the  story  of  this  atrocity.  For  it  seems  that 
I  had  done  something  more  than  neglect  to  buy  a  ticket. 
I  had  deliberately  shattered  a  sacred  custom.  And  be- 
yond that  there  is  no  sin  of  which  the  human  intellect  can 
conceive. 

Many  times  after  that  I  rode  the  Bubble  and  Squeak 
between  Fels  (La  Rochette)  and  Cruchten.  But  the 
general  officer  in  the  gold  braid  never  forgave  me.  He 
would  scrutinize  my  little  paper  billet,  back  and  front, 
as  if  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  not  counterfeit,  and  then 
hand  it  gravely  back,  showing  by  every  means  of  un- 
spoken insult  that  my  touch  had  contaminated  it.  I 
might  have  ridden  on  the  General's  railroad  every  day 
from  that  time  until  now  without  paying  a  centime  for 
my  passage.  And  in  time  I  should  have  become  a  legend. 
Mothers  would  have  used  my  story  as  a  tale  with  which 
to  discipline  their  children.  Repetition  of  the  yarn 
through  the  neighborhood  would  have  endowed  me  with 
Satanic  powers  and  my  fare-less  journeying  would  have 
assumed  a  dire  significance.  I  should  have  ranked  with 
the  headless  horseman  of  Ichabod  Crane's  experience  and 

411 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

taken  on  new  romance  as  "The  Mysterious  Rider  of  the 
Bubble  and  Squeak."  And  perhaps  some  good  soul 
would  have  bequeathed  his  entire  fortune  for  the  erec- 
tion of  a  monument  to  my  memory,  in  the  Square  of  the 
Lindens  at  Fels. 

Stranger  things  than  that  have  happened  in  Luxem- 
burg. 

Only  La  Rochette  could  cause  one  to  forget  his  ex- 
periences with  the  Bubble  and  Squeak,  but  La  Rochette 
does  that  speedily.  The  town  rises  from  the  tiny  sta- 
tion in  a  series  of  linden-walled  terraces,  square  and 
strong,  toward  the  encircling  rocks  upon  which  the  walls 
of  the  castle  retain  their  death  grip.  There  is  a  gabled 
dike  rising  out  of  the  trees  to  the  right  and  a  fortress 
tower  to  the  left.  One  looks  at  them  for  a  long  time 
before  realizing  that  they  are  separated  by  a  canon  in 
which  the  village  loses  itself. 

There  is  in  the  ruins  a  touch  of  the  awesome  grandeur 
of  Esch-le-Trou  and  Bourscheid,  a  suggestion  of  the  cap- 
ital in  the  garden  of  lindens,  and  a  bit  of  old  Echternach 
in  the  customs  of  the  people.  The  world  goes  by  the  gate 
of  Fels,  but  does  not  pause  to  enter  in.  The  Angelus 
rings.  The  men,  women,  and  children  of  La  Rochette 
halt  where  they  happen  to  be  and  bow  their  heads  in 
prayer.  The  simplicity  of  a  Millet  painting  is  in  the 
atmosphere  they  breathe. 

412 


LA  ROCHETTE 

Sit  down  to  luncheon  with  the  Widow  Knaff- 
Reckinger  and  she  will  tell  you  a  story. 

It  appears  that  La  Rochette  was  the  spot  where  oc- 
curred the  events  since  made  famous  in  that  stirring  epic 
"Sing  a  Song  of  Sixpence."  Mrs.  Goose  has  given  no 
credit  to  the  knights  of  Fels  in  her  thrilling  recital,  but 
legend  has  insured  their  glory.  The  history-making  epi- 
sode of  the  "Four  and  twenty  blackbirds  baked  in  a  pie," 
occurred  long  before  English  nursery  rhymes  were  col- 
lected between  covers. 

Ludwig  von  Fels  is  the  hero  of  the  piece.  He  lived  in 
1782,  when  Emperor  Joseph  II  ruled  the  duchy  of  Lux- 
emburg and  the  affairs  of  Austria  in  the  Netherlands 
were  verging  upon  collapse. 

There  had  been  considerable  ill-feeling  between  the 
personal  troops  of  Ludwig  and  the  Austrians  billeted  in 
the  duchy,  but  a  spirit  of  compromise — fostered,  per- 
haps, by  the  amiable  Joseph — ended  the  controversy. 
Ludwig  arranged  to  celebrate  this  armistice  with  a  great 
feast.  The  Austrian  officers  were  invited  to  attend  and 
many  splendid  culinary  specialties  were  brought  to  the 
castle  as  peace-offerings  by  the  principals  in  the  recent 
argument. 

The  feast  proceeded  with  great  good  fellowship  until, 
at  its  climax,  half  a  dozen  masked  waiters  came  into 
the  dining-hall,  bearing  upon  their  shoulders  an  immense 
pie.    This  offering,  which  Ludwig  knew  had  never  come 

413 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

from  his  own  kitchens,  was  vigorously  applauded.  The 
host,  with  a  pretty  speech  of  appreciation,  signaled  that 
the  pie  should  be  placed  before  him  and  arose  to  serve  it 
in  person  to  his  guests. 

One  slice  of  the  big  knife  lifted  the  top  crust.  Where- 
upon many  a  guest  leaped  up  from  the  table  without 
apology.  It  was  discovered  that  the  interior  of  the  pie 
was  stuffed  with  birds  that  had  been  dead  too  long  and 
not  quite  long  enough. 

Ludwig,  pale  and  angry,  immediately  charged  the  in- 
sult to  the  colonel  of  the  Austrian  Protestant  regiment 
from  Kaunitz. 

There  followed,  of  course,  the  inevitable  duel  in  the 
vaulted  salle  des  chevaliers  and  Ludwig,  who  ap- 
parently was  better  at  challenging  than  supporting  com- 
bat, eventually  rolled  under  his  own  table  with  a  hole 
over  his  heart. 

The  authenticity  of  the  blackbird  incident  is  solemnly 
vouched  for  by  any  number  of  Fels's  best  authorities  on 
local  history.  That  some  of  the  narrators  declare  the 
birds  in  the  pie  to  have  been  pheasants  and  the  scene 
of  the  duel  Luxemburg  city  does  not  change  it  so  far  as 
Ludwig  is  concerned. 

The  remains  of  the  castle  are  now  the  center  of  what 
one  might  call  a  national  park.  The  grand-duke,  father 
of  the  princess  who  now  rules  in  Luxemburg  city,  bought 
the  estate  and  went  to  considerable  expense  restoring 

414 


LA  ROCHETTE 

parts  of  its  walls  and  making  the  place  safe  for  sight- 
seers. The  rock  which  in  the  days  of  the  castle's  glory 
was  considered  inaccessible,  now  may  be  reached  with- 
out difficulty  by  a  wooden  stairway  that  zigzags  up 
through  the  clustering  firs  and  pines. 

The  ruins,  even  after  a  bombardment  by  Boufflers  and 
subsequent  centuries  of  inattention,  still  present  an  over- 
whelming vista  of  staunch  wall  and  unconquerable  don- 
jon. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairway  is  a  barred  gate  with  a  bell- 
pull  at  the  side.  A  single  jerk  brings  the  modern  lord 
of  the  manor  with  considerably  less  speed  than  would 
have  been  shown  by  his  predecessors  in  this  domain  at  a 
similar  signal  had  strangers  thus  shown  themselves  on 
the  top  of  the  lofty  rock.  But  the  guardian  has  one  grace 
that  makes  him  ideal  for  his  position.  He  lets  one  in, 
closes  the  gate,  and  promptly  disappears. 

The  gate  has  opened  into  a  park,  a  green  bower  where 
sun-sequins  dart  through  the  thick  clusters  of  trees.  This 
was  the  courtyard  of  the  castle,  as  the  encircling  ruins 
proclaim,  an  ideal  place  from  which  to  view  this  great 
poem  of  rock  and  to  meditate  upon  the  fate  of  the  men 
who  placed  it  there. 

The  house  of  Fels  was  a  long-lived  family,  exerting  a 
powerful  influence  throughout  the  duchy  from  the  cru- 
sades to  the  French  Revolution.  Boufflers  the  batterer 
looked  upon  the  castle  as  a  strategic  point  worthy  of  spe- 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

cial  attention  and  if  thoroughness  of  destruction  be  what 
it  is  generally  credited  with  being, — a  sign  of  resistance, 
— then  Fels  must  have  mustered  all  its  available 
strength  in  one  last  stand.  Many  a  cannon-ball  and 
bomb  combined  to  produce  this  wreckage. 

But  even  Boufflers  could  not  tear  it  up  from  its  stone- 
bound  roots  or  crush  its  uprearing  head.  To-day  its 
haughty  skeleton  outlines  the  vanished  halls  and  the  per- 
petual twilight  of  the  pines  fills  in  the  gaps  where  the 
walls  have  fallen. 

The  beautiful  carvings  of  the  ancient  chapel  still 
cling  to  the  walls  in  an  inaccessible  nook  in  the  donjon 
tower.  The  delicacy  of  the  fagade  has  not  been  lessened 
by  the  fact  that  it  is  now  a  false  front  to  nothingness.  The 
tower  at  the  corner  remains  to-day  sturdy  and  solid, 
though  winds  course  down  out  of  the  north  and  wander- 
ing roots  pry  into  the  mortar  to  cleave  apart  the  age-old 
masonry.  The  town  of  La  Rochette  sleeps  beneath  this 
tottering  cliff,  serene  in  the  knowledge  that  its  crown 
of  weathered  rubble  will  stay  in  place,  come  wind,  come 
storm. 

One  of  the  show  places  of  the  castle  park  is  a  well 
nearly  two  hundred  feet  deep.  It  was  once  famous  for 
the  purity  of  its  water,  but  a  number  of  things  have  hap- 
pened to  it  since  then.  It  has  become  the  storehouse  not 
only  for  the  mysteries  of  the  castle,  but  for  the  secrets  of 

416 


LA  ROCHETTE 

the  entire  country-side, — a  gloomy  bourne  whence  no 
dead  man  comes  back  to  tell  any  tales. 

Things  began  to  collect  in  the  well  in  the  thirteenth 
century  when  the  castle  was  besieged  by  the  Templars 
and  a  young  woman  of  the  house,  crazed  with  the  fear 
of  their  rumored  cruelty,  jumped  into  the  black  pit. 
John  of  Bohemia  visited  the  place  on  business,  at  the 
head  of  an  army.  Two  knights  of  Fels  refused  to  admit 
him  and  fought  with  him  until  starvation  had  reduced 
the  garrison.  Then  they  followed  the  example  of  their 
virtuous  ancestress  in  a  leap  over  the  parapet.  There 
are  various  legends  of  lovelorn  maidens  who  in  various 
centuries  have  gone  to  keep  them  company.  Once  the 
bones  of  a  child  were  brought  up  by  the  old  oaken  bucket. 
The  old  well  has  fallen  into  disuse. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  bore,  it  is  said  on  excellent  au- 
thority, the  treasures  of  Fels,  to  a  total  that  would  stag- 
ger the  imagination  of  a  Monte  Cristo,  lie  hidden  in  a 
grotto.  But  they  are  guarded  by  a  fearsome  object, — a 
dragon,  the  last  survivor  of  his  interesting  race,  skilled 
in  the  strategy  of  age-long  experience. 

Should  one  go  treasure-hunting  one's  fate  is  sealed. 
If  the  carbon-monoxid  gas  fails  to  act,  then  the  dragon 
promptly  blows  out  the  visitors'  candle  and  slays  him 
in  the  dark. 

What  effect  the  windy  trickery  of  the  dragon  might 
have  upon  an  electric  flash-lamp  is  not  explained  by  the 

417 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

castle  guardian.  The  very  mention  of  electricity  some- 
how seems  to  spoil  the  story. 

There  is  probably  not  a  man  or  a  woman  in  Eels  who 
has  not  seen  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars  riding 
in  the  ruins  with  his  knights  on  Maundy  Thursday.  No 
ghost  or  group  of  ghosts  in  all  the  Ardennes  comes  better 
recommended.  One  is  a  bit  awed  by  the  preponderance 
of  evidence  in  favor  of  the  Grand  Master's  spiritual 
existence  until  one  hears  of  the  circumstances  that  attend 
his  annual  parade :  he  may  be  seen  only  by  those  in  the 
state  of  grace. 

In  this  story  is  a  quaint  suggestion  of  Hans  Christian 
Andersen's  tale  of  the  "King's  Garments." 

The  king,  you  will  remember,  had  ordered  some 
clothes  from  a  rogue  of  a  tailor  who  informed  him  that 
the  completed  costume  would  be  one  that  only  the  clean 
of  heart  could  see.  His  Majesty  was  unable  to  see  it 
himself,  but  dared  not  say  it,  for  to  have  done  so  would 
have  been  to  admit  that  something  was  amiss  with  his 
soul. 

He  announced  to  his  capital  that  he  would  lead  a  great 
procession  so  that  all  might  behold  his  miraculous  gar- 
ments. The  entire  town  turned  out  to  see  him  and  all 
admired  his  invisible  cloak  until  a  little  child  piped  up 
that  His  Gracious  Majesty  had  on  no  clothes  at  all.  The 
king  then  borrowed  a  coat  and  went  back  to  the  tailor's 

418 


LA  ROCHETTE 

shop,  where  he  beheaded  the  deceiving  garment-maker 
with  his  own  fair  hand. 

It  is  said  that  a  two-year-old  baby  of  La  Rochette  was 
with  its  mother  near  the  base  of  the  rock  one  Maundy 
Thursday  when  the  mother  beheld  the  train  of  knights. 
She  directed  the  baby's  attention  to  the  sight,  but  the 
baby  stoutly  denied  that  anything  was  to  be  seen.  The 
mother  took  the  child  home  and  spanked  it  for  stubborn- 
ness, despite  the  fact  that  even  in  Fels  two-year-old 
babies  are  seldom  steeped  in  sin.  The  mother,  it  ap- 
pears, had  not  the  sense  of  the  good  king  who  accepted 
the  verdict  of  an  innocent  above  the  plaudits  of  fawning 
thousands  in  the  matter  of  the  invisible  cloak. 

The  crevasse  between  the  castle  proper  and  the  watch- 
tower  on  the  opposite  cliff  is  known  in  local  parlance  as 
the  Verlorenkost,  "the  lost  dinner." 

It  acquired  its  name  in  this  wise: 

A  wooden  bridge  once  connected  the  two  bluffs.  A 
repair-man  was  setting  some  new  stones  in  the  masonry 
of  the  north  pier,  walking  over  from  his  home  in  the 
south  part  of  the  village  in  the  morning  and  returning 
at  night.  Each  noon  his  wife  brought  his  dinner  to  the 
south  end  of  the  bridge  and  sat  with  him  while  he  was 
eating  it.  One  day  she  was  waiting  at  the  customary 
meeting-place  and  he  had  started  across  the  bridge  as 
usual,  when  the  rotted  wooden  supports  in  the  center 
of  the  trestle  gave  way.     The  good  man  plunged  to  his 

419 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

death  and  the  shocked  wife  let  go  of  her  basket,  which 
dropped  over  the  cliff  after  him. 

Townsfolk  who  had  heard  of  the  crash  of  the  falling 
bridge  came  running  across  the  rock  and  found  the 
woman  sitting  stupehed.  When  they  asked  her  what 
had  happened  she  replied: 

"The  bridge  is  gone  and  the  dinner  is  lost." 

And  so  the  name  remains  to-day,  a  monument  to 
wifely  affection. 

In  pleasant  contrast  is  the  love-story  of  Margaret  of 
Fels  and  John  of  Beaufort,  an  idyl  worthy  of  the  space 
given  it  by  Passmore  in  his  book  on  the  Ardennes. 

The  action  of  the  story  took  place  in  the  thirteenth 
century  when  Ludolph  was  overlord  of  Fels  and  Conan 
ruled  at  Beaufort.  The  lives  of  these  two  seigneurs 
were  linked  by  kindred  misfortunes.  The  young  wife  of 
Conan  had  closed  her  eyes  forever  when  her  son  was 
three  years  old.  Margaret  of  Fels,  bride  of  less  than  a 
year,  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  daughter. 

The  two  knights  became  fast  friends  and  their  chil- 
dren grew  up  as  brother  and  sister. 

Then  the  chivalry  of  Christendom  heard  the  call  of 
Pope  Honarius  to  a  holy  war  and  rode  forth  to  do  the 
will  of  God.  The  child  Margaret  was  left  in  the  care 
of  Dame  Godelinde,  under  the  protection  of  the  esquire 
Gottfried.  The  venerable  Father  Siegfroid,  chaplain 
of  Beaufort,  undertook  the  education  of  the  boy. 

420 


LA  ROCHETTE 

Throughout  the  years  that  followed,  while  the  endless 
battling  of  the  crusade  was  in  progress  about  Jerusalem, 
John  and  Margaret  were  constant  companions.  Only 
when  he  was  taken  to  the  court  of  Count  Henry,  to  be 
armed  and  knighted  with  impressive  ceremony,  did  the 
son  of  Conan  leave  the  daughter  of  Ludolph  for  a  single 
day.  For  all  his  honors,  John  would  rather  have  re- 
mained in  the  vicinity  of  Fels  than  be  separated  from 
his  "little  sister."  But  he  respected  the  orders  that  his 
father  had  left  with  his  preceptor  and  rode  to  Luxem- 
burg with  as  much  preparation  and  regret  as  if  he,  too, 
were  departing  for  a  protracted  campaign  in  a  far  coun- 
try. But  the  separation  had  its  use.  Margaret  and  John 
had  been  brother  and  sister  so  long  as  they  saw  each 
other  every  day.  A  week  apart  made  them  aware  of  the 
promptings  of  love. 

They  plighted  their  troth  after  John's  return  from  the 
capital  and  lived  in  a  continuous  dream  of  happiness 
until  one  day  clouds  of  dust  in  the  valleys  signaled  the 
return  of  the  crusaders.  This  home-coming,  which 
should  have  brought  happiness  to  a  climax,  proved  to  be 
a  calamity.  Conan  and  Ludolph  had  quarreled.  The 
former  friends  were  bitter  enemies  and  a  ban  went  forth 
from  both  houses  against  the  union  of  the  lovers. 

So  it  went  on  for  more  than  a  year  while  the  lord  of 
Fels  and  the  lord  of  Beaufort,  scarred  though  they  were 
with  the  sacrifices  of  a  holy  war,  nursed  their  growing 

421 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

hatred,  obdurate,  deaf  to  the  warnings  of  their  chaplains, 
unrepentant,  and  unshriven. 

Shortly  before  Easter-time  in  the  second  year  of  the 
quarrel,  the  Dame  Godelinde  "began  to  smell  the  pine" 
as  premonition  of  death  is  described  in  Luxemburg.  She 
called  Ludolph  to  her  bedside  and  whispered  to  him  a 
farewell  and  a  warning,  then  folded  her  hands  across 
her  breast  and  died.  Ludolph,  in  tears,  sought  out  a 
priest  and  acknowledged  his  fault  with  true  humility. 
Then  he  and  Margaret  set  out  for  Beaufort. 

Midway  between  the  two  castles  they  met  the  lord  of 
Beaufort  and  his  son,  for  Conan,  it  appears,  had  been 
stricken  with  remorse  precisely  at  the  hour  of  Gode- 
linde's  death.  The  two  warriors  embraced  and  Margaret 
fled  into  the  arms  of  John.  The  Easter  bells  were  sound- 
ing in  the  valley. 

Margaret,  whispering  prayers  of  thanksgiving,  began 
to  weep.  And  where  her  tears  fell  upon  the  rock  a 
crystal  spring  arose, — a  fountain  that  trickles  down  the 
mountain-side  to  this  day  and  keeps  alive  the  memory  of 
the  lady  of  La  Rochette  in  its  name,  "Tears  of  the  Lady 
Margaret." 


422 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
CHRISTNACH  AND  MYSEMBOURG 


SWANHILDE  AND  THE  LoVE  OF  RODORIC 

I  have  builded  a  monument  more  lasting  than 
bronze. 

— Horace. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CHRISTNACH  AND  MYSEMBOURG 

EAST  of  La  Rochette — between  it  and  the  Miil- 
lerthal  in  the  heart  of  Little  Switzerland — is 
Crucenacum  or  Christnach,  with  a  story  worth 
repetition. 

Crucenacum  must  have  been  a  camp  of  some  impor- 
tance in  the  day  of  the  Roman  occupation.  Save  for  the 
Teutonic  signs  on  its  houses  it  might  well  be  a  suburb 
of  Rome.  Few  houses  in  the  Eternal  City  itself  have 
foundations  more  ancient. 

The  present  town  is  said  to  date  from  752.  Its  name 
appears  in  a  document  of  that  date,  although  there  is  no 
telling  how  long  it  may  have  been  in  existence  prior  to 
that.  The  struggle  of  the  Cross  with  pagan  superstition 
developed  one  of  its  minor  crises  in  the  village  during 
the  sixth  century — an  incident  typical  of  the  great  drama 
that  was  being  enacted  at  that  time  throughout  the 
Rhineland,  the  Moselle  district,  and  the  Ardennes, 
where  Christian  gleaners  were  following  the  Roman 
reaper. 

Rodoricus,  a  Gallic  chief  and  devotee  of  Diana,  lived 
at  the  castle  Zorodertsbourg,  the  first  stronghold  on  the 

425 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

rock  of  Fels.  At  Crucenacum  lived  Swanhilde,  the  fair- 
est woman  in  all  that  wild  region.  She  and  her  sister 
Vallida  had  listened  to  the  preaching  of  the  hermit  Wul- 
flaicus  and  had  become  Christians.  The  young  women 
had  devoted  themselves  to  acts  of  piety,  but  this  did  not 
stay  the  arm  of  the  powerful  Rodoricus. 

He  discovered  the  charm  of  Swanhilde  and  without 
so  much  as  the  formality  of  a  proposal  of  marriage  picked 
her  up  and  carried  her  to  a  dungeon  in  his  castle. 

Something  in  Swanhilde's  holy  wrath  deterred  him 
from  further  violence.  He  decided  to  let  the  wonder- 
woman  remain  underground  until  a  diet  of  lentils  and 
water  had  brought  her  to  her  senses. 

In  the  meantime  Swanhilde  occupied  herself  in  prayer, 
vowing  to  destroy  Diana's  sacred  forest  should  she 
obtain  her  release  from  captivity. 

Rodoricus  grew  tired  of  waiting  upon  the  whim  of 
Swanhilde.  Something  in  her  persistent  refusal  of  him, 
a  chief  toward  whom  all  the  women  in  three  counties 
had  cast  luring  glances  in  vain,  aroused  a  resentment 
approximating  hatred.  One  day  he  sent  an  axman  down 
to  the  dungeon  to  behead  her. 

But  the  execution  was  not  carried  out  as  scheduled. 
The  axman  was  a  Christian  who  had  been  forced  to  con- 
ceal his  beliefs  from  his  pagan  chief.  When  he  came  to 
Swanhilde's  prison  he  promptly  released  her,   led  her 

426 


CHRISTNACH  AND  MYSEMBOURG 

through  a  secret  passage  to  the  mountain-top,  and  set 
her  free. 

Rodoricus,  searching  for  her  body,  discovered  the 
trick.    He  set  out  after  her  with  all  his  men-at-arms. 

During  their  hunt  through  the  wild  ravines  of  Little 
Switzerland  they  captured  a  priest.  Rodoricus,  seeking 
information  concerning  the  whereabouts  of  the  vanished 
virgin,  quizzed  the  monk  at  great  length  and  received  in 
reply  a  few  soft-spoken  words  on  the  doctrine  of  the 
cross.  The  warrior  chief,  impressed,  halted  the  hunt  and 
sat  down  to  listen  to  further  instruction  in  this  strange 
new  faith.  Rodoricus  the  pagan  arose  from  that  im- 
promptu conference  Rodoric  the  saint. 

He  and  the  beautiful  Swanhilde  were  married  shortly 
after  that.  She  took  the  name  Christina  and  built  a 
church  in  Crucenacum  still  known  as  "Christina's 
Chapel." 

There  is  a  good  road  leading  across  the  plateau  west- 
ward from  Fels. 

A  three-mile  walk  over  an  island  in  the  air  brings  one 
to  Mysembourg,  a  chateau  which  in  the  olden  days  was 
the  center  of  a  wide  domain  and  the  seat  of  a  powerful 
house. 

A  great  castle  stood  there  in  the  twelfth  century — had 
been  standing  for  centuries  prior  to  that,  perhaps — and 
remained  for  two  hundred  years  as  a  menace  to  the  peace 

427 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

of  the  country-side.  It  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  the  six- 
teenth century  in  a  "private  war"  and  rebuilt  to  be  a 
target  for  Boufflers  in  1684. 

Baron  Christophe  d'Arnoult  put  up  a  modern  palace 
in  the  ashes  of  the  old,  prior  to  the  French  Revolution. 
Then  the  sansculottes  seized  it  and  sold  it  to  Monsieur 
Antoine,  Barone  de  Casal  de  Fischbach,  who  paid  a  price 
of  nearly  a  million  francs  for  it.  Inasmuch  as  the  franc 
had  dropped  at  that  period  to  the  modest  retirement  now 
claimed  by  the  German  mark,  the  consideration  was  n't 
so  large  as  it  might  seem. 

At  present  the  estate  is  owned  by  the  d'Arenberg 
family.  Charles,  who  purchased  it,  married  the  widow 
of  Prince  Michael  Obrenovitch  of  Serbia,  who  was 
killed  by  an  assassin  in  1868. 

The  castle  looks  more  like  a  French  chateau  than  a 
survival  of  Luxemburg's  medievalism.  It  stands  at  the 
edge  of  a  wooded  park  close  by  a  little  mirror  of  a  lake. 

The  feudal  town  that  surrounded  the  old  castle  or 
castles  has  completely  disappeared.  The  villagers, 
oppressed  by  the  alien  lords  who  bought  the  place  a 
number  of  decades  ago,  emigrated  en  masse  to  America. 
The  lord  of  the  manor,  far  from  mourning  their  defec- 
tion, tore  down  the  buildings  of  the  village  and  extended 
his  formal  gardens  over  the  acreage  they  had  occupied. 

The  wandering  road  leads  back  through  a  private 
avenue  between  thick  forests  to  the  highway  at  Angels- 

428 


CHRISTNACH  AND  MYSEMBOURG 

berg, — a  village  where  live  the  kindliest,  happiest  peo- 
ple in  all  Luxemburg.  There  should  be  a  legend  about 
Angelsberg.  But  the  town  is  just  a  homely  little  farm- 
ing hamlet  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  It  has  no  ruins 
if  one  excepts  a  rusting  traction-engine  in  the  burgo- 
master's front  yard  and  an  ancient  who  tolls  the  bell  at 
the  parish  church.  It  has  no  story  save  the  unromantic 
tale  of  daily  decency  which  is  too  real  ever  to  be  the 
subject  of  folk-lore. 

Angelsberg — some  linguist  can  guess  whence  comes 
its  name — is  the  village  of  Grandpre  before  the  coming 
of  the  English  and  the  dispersing  of  the  Acadians.  The 
hobnailed  boots  of  the  invader  have  not  crushed  out  its 
hospitality  and  an  excellent  opportunity  for  profiteering 
has  not  destroyed  its  inbred  generosity. 

Over  the  hill  the  Rollingerbach  dives  down  through  a 
widening  V  into  a  tree-lined  gorge.  The  road  follows 
uncertainly  through  curves  blasted  out  of  the  rock  at 
the  side  of  it.  Steadily  down  it  goes,  with  not  a  break 
in  the  gradient  until  it  straightens  out  to  cross  a  rail- 
road.   Beyond  rises  the  Byzantine  tower  of  Mersch. 


429 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
PASTELS 


The  People  of  the  Toy  Kingdom 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead. 
— Keats. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

PASTELS 

THE  toy  kingdoms  are  vanishing.  The  Rurita- 
nias,  Transylvanias,  Hentzaus,  and  Grau- 
starks  of  yesteryear  have  gone  to  make  larger 
maps  for  Germany,  France,  and  Italy.  New  republics 
have  sprung  from  the  ashes  of  petty  courts,  but  progress, 
the  great  leavener,  has  made  one  of  them  look  much  like 
all  the  others.  Concrete  and  steel  are  replacing  the 
ancient  impractical  but  characteristic  national  architec- 
tures with  the  pillar-like  designs  of  modern  buildings. 
Easy  transportation  is  leaving  the  imprint  of  Parisian 
style  upon  the  remotest  hamlets, — a  dozen  or  more  years 
late  in  some  instances  but  still  sufficiently  recent  to 
obliterate  the  eye-catching  varieties  of  color  and  buttons 
and  queer  cuts  that  once  figured  in  the  community's 
official  costume. 

But  apparently  the  Ardennes  will  always  be  the 
Ardennes.  All  of  the  processes  of  assimilation  and  exter- 
mination of  a  thousand  years  have  failed  to  rob  it  of  an 
iota  of  its  individuality.  Its  colors  have  been  blended, 
perhaps,  in  a  rich,  marvelous  tapestry,  but  they  are  still 
its  own  colors.    Its  customs  have  persisted  through  ages 

433 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

beset  by  fire,  famine,  pestilence,  and  war.  The  identity 
that  has  persevered  against  the  opposed  envies  of  the 
Germans  and  the  French  is  evidenced  from  one  end  of  the 
duchy  to  the  other  in  its  towns,  farms,  mills,  stores, 
beliefs,  and  mode  of  thought.  The  cock-sure  nationality 
of  Luxemburg  is  ingrained  in  every  civilian  and  stamped 
in  brilliant  patterns  on  every  gendarme  in  the  land. 

"We  would  remain  just  as  we  are,"  declares  the  Lux- 
emburg national  hymn,  with  an  air  of  defiance.  And 
every  official  Luxemburger  is  a  walking  proof  that  the 
people  believe  in  the  spirit  of  their  song. 

All  of  the  elements  of  romance  are  found  in  the  coun- 
try, from  the  comely  princess  at  the  helm  of  state,  to  the 
Krummerweg, — the  crooked  way  where  men  with 
crooked  minds  hatch  dark  plots  against  the  state. 

The  opera-bouffe  setting  which  we,  since  childhood, 
have  been  accustomed  to  associate  with  beautiful  prin- 
cesses, intriguing  esquires,  and  brilliant  young  com- 
moners who  always  rescue  the  toy  palace  from  the  toy 
troops  of  a  neighboring  .principality  at  midnight  on 
Shrove  Tuesday,  is  here  at  its  brightest.  There  is  an 
indescribable  air  of  antiquity  even  about  the  more  mod- 
ern things  in  Luxemburg,  not  to  mention  the  disintegrat- 
ing walls  that  Siegfroid  and  his  fairy  wife  built  upon 
the  foundations  left  by  Rome.  There  is  a  suggestion  of 
a  gateway  to  the  past  in  the  palace  arches  modeled  at 

434 


PASTELS 

a  time  when  the  glory  of  Spain  was  emblazoned  in  char- 
acters of  gold  across  the  face  of  the  world. 

This  is  a  country  of  tints. 

Its  distances  as  we  behold  them  in  winter  dress  are 
hazy  greens  and  grays  and  whites,  blended  and  vague. 
Its  foregrounds  are  colorful  but  all  pastels, — no  bold 
strokes  with  elemental  tones  on  a  broad  brush.  The 
farm-houses  are  pinks  and  creams  and  baby-blues  with 
window  trimmings  of  light  green  and  shutters  of  violet. 
Here  and  there  this  generation's  application  of  tint  has 
fallen  off,  disclosing  in  a  peculiar  sketchy  fashion  the 
decorations  of  other  years. 

The  burgomaster's  son  passes  up  the  street.  A  plaid 
cap  is  set  jauntily  on  the  side  of  his  blond  head.  A  green 
scarf  is  wrapped  carelessly  about  his  neck,  the  end  flung 
over  the  shoulder  of  his  gold-colored  corduroy  jacket. 

By  his  side  lumber  two  Belgian  horses,  huge  beasts 
hitched  in  tandem  to  a  creaking  cart, — overgrown  Shet- 
lands  with  long  manes  and  sad  eyes,  flecked  and  dappled 
like  toys  from  the  Schwarzwald. 

A  Minorca  rooster  dodges  between  the  horses'  feet, 
voices  a  raucous  protest,  and  brings  up  pompously  in  the 
safety  of  a  dooryard.  A  postman  with  a  mantle  of 
purple  and  a  cape  piped  in  red  has  come  into  the  scene. 
His  leather  bag  is  the  color  of  cordovan  with  wax  and 
wear.    He  is  quarreling  with  a  wolf-dog.    Evidently  the 

435 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

argument  is  of  long  standing,  for  he  shows  no  hesitation 
in  driving  a  clumsy  boot  into  the  gaunt  gray  creature's 
ribs.  The  dog  snarls  and  disappears  through  a  stone 
gateway.  The  ornate  postman  adjusts  his  elegant  accou- 
trements and  goes  his  way. 

In  the  distance  a  whistle  shrieks, — a  tiny  sound  like 
the  escaping  plaint  of  a  toy  balloon.  Over  across  the 
Alzette,  under  the  dim  buttresses  of  the  pine-covered 
hills,  wind  a  toy  locomotive  and  a  procession  of  toy 
coaches.  One  cannot  hear  the  noise  of  the  flat  wheels 
nor  of  the  steam  that  leaks  from  the  pistons.  But  one 
can  see  the  train  as  plainly  as  a  pictured  train  in  the 
cinema — ten  coaches,  short,  fat  little  things,  drawn  by  a 
pompous  little  engine — all  silhouetted  against  a  white 
plume  of  steam. 

There  is  this  to  be  said  of  Truth  crushed  to  earth 
and  rising  again  in  Luxemburg:  The  highly  revered 
legends  are  ninety  per  cent,  imagination  and  preposter- 
ous, but  they  somehow  leave  the  impression  that  their 
foundation  rests  upon  fact.  Whereas  many  a  simple 
recital  of  wide-spread  custom  may  be  entirely  true  and 
yet  sound  like  legend. 

Such  is  the  case  of  the  Pig  Piper.  I  had  lived  in  the 
vicinity  of  Mersch  three  months  before  I  would  believe 
that  he  existed.  I  might  accept  without  comment  the 
story  of  the  Flying  Horseman  of  Marienthal   or  the 

436 


PASTELS 

Dicers  of  Vianden  but  the  Piper  was  a  creature  too  im- 
possible to  be  countenanced  even  by  a  vivid  imagination. 

.\nd  he  seems  impossible  still. — for  all  that  I  know 
now  of  the  valuable  services  which  he  performs  in  many 
communities  and  of  the  long  and  honorable  line  of  pig- 
pipers  who  were  his  ancestors. 

A  horn  sounded.  The  hills,  green  with  winter  wheat 
and  evergreen  shrubs,  threw  back  the  echo. 

Across  the  Alzette  the  church-bell  was  chiming.  A 
gendarme  in  gorgeous  uniform  lolled  over  the  stone  rail 
of  the  bridge,  watching  little  Gretchen.  the  mercer's 
daughter,  trying  to  sail  a  wooden  shoe  in  the  sluggish 
current.  .An  ox-cart  rumbled  by  along  the  main  road  to 
the  capital.    A  still,  peaceful  scene,  vivid,  delightful. 

The  horn  sounded  again.  There  was  a  perceptible  stir 
in  the  village  street. — curtains  drawn  back,  doors 
opened,  female  voices  suddenly  hlling  the  air  from 
everpvhere  and  nowhere. 

The  echoing  blast  was  not  beautiful.  It  was  a  note 
long-drawn  and  dolorous,  of  a  tone  which  in  an  .\meri- 
can  street  would  have  brought  much  business  to  a  hsh- 
merchant.  But  obviously  no  mere  tish-peddler  could 
have  produced  such  an  upheaval  in  the  staid  life  of 
Rollingen. 

At  the  third  note  of  the  horn  the  player  appeared. 
The  stage-setting  had  not  been  wasted.  He  was  truly  a 
part  of  the  picture. 

437 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

He  was  tall,  thin,  and  dark,  clad  in  wooden-soled, 
black  leather  boots,  gray  wrapped  leggings,  dark-blue 
breeches,  a  greenish  coat  that  fitted  up  tight  under  his 
chin,  and  a  fuzzy  fedora  hat  with  a  bright  red  feather  in 
it.  A  pied  piper  indeed,  from  rollicking,  devil-may-care 
stride  to  the  polished  instrument  under  his  arm. 

It  would  have  been  no  surprise  had  the  old  houses  of 
Rollingen  suddenly  disgorged  a  regiment  of  rats  and 
then  a  battalion  or  two  of  children  to  dance  along  in  the 
wake  of  this  strange  being. 

A  door  opened  and  I  started  involuntarily,  wondering 
what  would  come  into  the  street  in  answer  to  his  trum- 
peted summons.  And  then  I  stared,  scarcely  believing 
my  eyes.  Never  did  a  Pied  Piper  tread  the  streets  of 
Hamelin  Town  with  a  stranger  concourse  at  his  heels 
than  that  which  followed  the  youth  with  the  red  feather 
into  the  crooked  lanes  of  Rollingen. 

Two  fat  pigs,  pinky  white  and  far  too  clean  for  normal 
porkers,  strolled  into  the  street  and  grunted  along  in 
his  wake.  Then  another  and  another  stepped  from  road- 
side sties  to  join  the  march.  Behind  them  trotted  a 
bristly  dog  which  prevented  straggling,  by  nipping  a 
curly  tail  every  time  the  column  threatened  to  lengthen 
out. 

The  piper  raised  the  horn  and  sounded  another  ear- 
splitting  blast.  A  barn-door  at  the  head  of  the  street 
was  pushed  back  and  an  unseen  housewife  pushed  a 

438 


PASTELS 

fifth  pig  into  view.  The  dog  chased  it  into  line  with 
the  others. 

So  the  procession  continued,  slowly,  sedately,  down 
the  street,  another  pig  joining  the  ranks  at  every  stop. 
A  dozen  or  more  were  waddling  at  the  piper's  heels  when 
he  reached  the  opposite  side  of  the  village.  There  he 
turned  about  and  led  the  strange  parade  back,  returning 
the  porkers  to  their  proper  owners. 

A  parting  blast  of  the  doleful  horn  and  he  was  gone, 
swinging  down  the  road  toward  Beringen  with  the  fuzzy 
dog  trailing  after  him.  Street-cleaning  and  pig-exercis- 
ing had  been  finished  in  Rollingen  for  another  day. 

A  bell  rings  down  in  the  valley.  There  is  an  answer- 
ing echo  from  a  spire  in  the  gray  distance  on  the  hills. 
Then  chimes  from  the  depths  of  nowhere  at  all  and  a 
rolling  clangor  that  swells  and  diminishes  without  begin- 
ning and  without  end.  For  the  villages  are  close  to- 
gether, perched  on  sandstone  cliffs  or  buried  in  narrow 
canons,  hidden  in  pine  forests  or  teased  by  the  four  winds 
on  tiny  plateaus.  On  Sunday  morning  when  the  bells 
begin  to  ring,  one  must  know  the  tone  of  his  own  to  pick 
it  from  the  iron  chorus  of  the  clustered  towns. 

Our  village  is  always  deserted  until  the  warning  call 
is  sounded  half  an  hour  before  the  time  set  for  mass. 
Then,  before  the  last  echoes  of  the  final  bell  in  the 
valley  below  have  ceased  to  sound,  little  Gretchen  sticks 

439 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

an  unusually  clean  and  surprisingly  red  face  through  the 
cafe  door  and  surveys  the  empty  street.  It  is  always 
Gretchen.  She  has  an  eager  disposition  and  an  investi- 
gative turn  of  mind. 

Rain  or  snow  or  wind  fails  to  keep  her  indoors  once 
this  preliminary  survey  is  completed.  She  steps  into  the 
street,  a  doll-like  creature  of  fluify  blonde  curls,  striped 
calico  frock,  with  lacy  under  things  always  too  long  and 
always  getting  into  her  way,  bare  knees,  knitted  stock- 
ings, and  wooden-soled  shoes.  Somehow  the  cold  does 
not  seem  to  affect  her  in  spite  of  her  lack  of  heavy  wraps. 
She  has  the  constitution  of  an  arctic  explorer. 

She  stands  with  her  thumb  in  her  mouth,  expectant 
of  company  and  ready  for  adventure.  Once  she  missed 
mass  altogether  because  she  found  a  strange  and  inter- 
esting soldier  clipping  a  delightful  mule.  She  might 
have  missed  her  dinner,  too,  had  not  the  soldier  returned 
her  to  the  arms  of  her  anxious  parents  at  noon.  But 
usually  she  does  not  stir  from  her  father's  dooryard  until 
the  church-goers  begin  to  pass  by.  Then  she  attaches 
herself  to  the  first  party  that  appears,  and  goes  to  church. 
Her  parents  may  come  later  if  they  choose;  obviously  a 
young  lady  of  three  can't  be  bothered  with  the  care  of 
them. 

Presently  the  town  turns  out, — a  surprising  town  to 
one  who  has  seen  it  only  in  workaday  garb.  It  throngs 
to  church  with  a  quickened  step,  somber  in  the  dark  hues 

440 


PASTELS 

of  Sunday  clothes,  plainly  self-conscious  in  its  unaccus- 
tomed finery. 

It  is  a  surprisingly  well-dressed  village.  Here  and 
there  one  catches  a  glimpse  of  a  Parisian  hat;  four  years 
old  at  least,  it  must  be,  since  the  war  did  not  admit  of 
more  recent  importations,  but  still  as  chic  and  jaunty 
amid  the  lesser  creations  as  it  was  when  it  left  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix.  And  there  are  furs  innumerable  and  beyond 
price, — mink  and  civet  and  martin  and  mole  and  blue 
wolf  and  sable, — an  array  passed  down,  no  doubt,  to  the 
daughters  of  this  toy  village  from  the  trousseaus  of  great- 
grandmothers  long  since  dead. 

The  men  are  inevitably  drab  creatures,  slightly  bent 
with  the  routine  of  the  fields,  painfully  ill  at  ease  in  their 
highly  polished  footwear,  spotless  linen,  and  seldom- 
worn  accoutrements.  Some  of  them,  many  of  them,  wear 
stiff  collars  of  linen  or  German  celluloid  and  pay  the 
penalty  of  torture  for  their  vain  display.  A  few  fly  in 
the  face  of  convention  by  appearing  in  the  week-day 
costume  of  knickers  and  spiral  puttees.  But  not  many. 
Sunday  is  a  day  apart  and  its  demands  must  be  rigidly 
respected.  This  village  which  goes  to  church  is  a  dif- 
ferent one  entirely  from  that  which  goes  into  the  fields 
on  week-days. 

There  is  never  an  impulse  to  look  twice  at  Frau  Raths 
in  sabots  and  soiled  skirts,  a  shapeless  figure  scrubbing 
the  blue-tiled  hallway  of  her  home  on  Saturday  evening. 

441 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

But  Widow  Raths  neatly  corseted,  shod  in  patent- 
leather  pumps,  well  gowned,  and  half  concealed  in  a 
cloud  of  black  veil,  is  a  living  mystery  when  she  steps 
up  the  center  aisle  on  Sunday  morning. 

Peter  Hartman,  who  once  worked  in  London,  is  a 
farmer  lad  for  six  days  and  an  obvious  "toff"  on  the 
seventh. 

Hans  the  blacksmith  is  a  picturesque  figure  in  the 
uniform  of  his  trade  and  a  sad,  uneasy,  misfit  sort  of 
being  in  the  mournful  raiment  of  the  day  of  rest. 

One  would  have  difficulty  in  recognizing,  in  the  well- 
washed  angel  who  follows  her  mother  with  an  uncertain 
step  over  the  cobbles  from  the  pink  house  at  the  end  of 
the  street,  the  dirty  little  wretch  whose  companions  yes- 
terday were  the  soiled  pigs  in  her  father's  barnyard. 

It  is  a  serious  sort  of  holiday.  Smiles  seem  to  be 
meted  out  according  to  a  set  measure.  The  quaint  care- 
lessness of  habit  that  has  made  the  town  a  living  picture 
is  shrouded  in  a  stiff  covering  of  studied  artificiality. 

By  noon  our  village  will  be  alive  again.  There  will 
be  laughter  in  the  houses  and  neighborly  confabs  in  the 
streets.  For  most  of  the  Sunday  finery  will  have  been 
laid  away  in  the  chests  where  such  gladsome  raiment  is 
kept.  Only  a  heavy  gold-plated  watch-charm  or  a  but- 
ton of  honor  for  signal  service  rendered  the  fire- 
department  will  remain  with  the  emancipated  male  to  re- 
mind him  that  it  is  still  Sunday. 

442 


PASTELS 

The  peasant,  whatever  his  crudities,  is  a  natural  sort 
of  soul.  Clothes,  even  among  his  women-folk,  are  for 
modest  concealment  rather  than  attractive  display.  The 
village  in  Sunday  dress  knows  that  it  is  on  parade  and 
falls  ready  victim  to  its  own  self-consciousness. 


443 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
THE  FIREMEN 


Guardians  of  Society 

And  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 

— Milton. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


THE  FIREMEN 


ONCE  there  was  a  fire  in  a  Luxemburg  village, 
— a  real  fire  in  which  the  ancient  rafters  of 
weathered  oak  proved  to  the  assembled  throng 
that  despite  their  age  and  appearance  they  were  really 
wood  and  not  the  black  basalt  that  they  so  closely  re- 
sembled in  color  and  texture.  It  was  a  terrible  thing. 
There  had  been  other  fires,  of  course.  There  was  that 
fire  in  1812  which  wiped  out  an  entire  village  in  the 
valley  of  the  Alzette  and  numerous  others  before  it.  It 
is  true  that  the  fire  of  which  we  speak  was  not  so  momen- 
tous of  those  of  the  great  Louis  which  Boufflers,  his  torch- 
man,  lighted  from  one  horizon  to  the  other.  But  it  was 
a  disastrous  fire,  none  the  less.  Monsieur.  A  family 
named  Birchen  was  made  homeless.  A  fine  dwelling- 
place  valued  at  a  thousand  marks  was  destroyed, — all 
except  the  walls  and  part  of  an  upper  floor.  It  was 
truly  a  grand  sight. 

The  fire-department  turned  out  in  full  uniform  and 
fought  the  flames  gallantly.  They  came  running  up  with 
their  pump  amid  rousing  cheers  and  dropped  a  hose  into 
a  well.     But  the  hose  was  not  long  enough.     So  they 

447 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

could  get  no  water.  Only  that  it  began  to  rain  they 
might  have  had  difficulty  in  extinguishing  the  fire.  But 
eventually  the  flames  died  out  and  the  fire-department 
received  a  diploma  from  the  Government  for  efficient 
service.  It  is  still  to  be  seen  in  their  meeting-rooms  at 
the  Maine. 

Almost  in  these  words  Herr  Muller  described  to  me 
the  valor  of  an  organization  which,  strangely  enough, 
has  not  been  properly  celebrated  in  song  and  story.  I 
decided  that  here  was  a  matter  worthy  of  closer 
attention. 

In  every  Luxemburg  community  the  fire-department 
is  the  chief  social  organization.  The  trend  to  uniformed 
grandeur,  so  evident  in  the  gendarmerie  of  the  grand 
duchy,  finds  its  civil  expression  in  a  Bund  exclusive  in 
its  membership  and  active  as  a  secret  society. 

Where  under  a  different  plan  of  organization  a  coun- 
try might  find  personal  aggrandizement  in  a  militia 
company,  Luxemburg  must  content  itself  with  the  peace- 
ful drills  of  the  fire-fighters.  And  because  they  are  essen- 
tially a  peace-time  organization,  their  uniforms  are  no 
more  military  than  those  of  the  Prussian  guard  on  dress 
parade. 

Gold  braid,  that  shames  the  less  brilliant  brass  gilt 
and  nickel  of  the  gendarmes,  shines  on  their  red  or  mauve 
or  buff  breast-shields.  Patent-leather  boots,  dark 
trousers  with  wide  red  stripes,  brilliant  belts,  and  bur- 

448 


THE  FIREMEN 

nished  buttons  make  the  fire-fighters  the  most  resplend- 
ent group  of  burghers  within  the  boundaries  of  the 
duchy.  But  the  crowning  glory  of  the  picture  is  the 
helmet  that  completes  the  uniform. 

This  head-piece  differs  in  various  localities,  but  in  its 
main  essentials  it  is  the  same  throughout  the  entire  fede- 
ration of  fire-departments.  It  is  a  casque  of  nickeled 
brass,  plumed  or  spiked,  depending  upon  whether  the 
sympathies  of  the  community  in  which  it  is  worn  are 
Prussian  or  French. 

The  models  range  in  period  and  method  of  construc- 
tion from  the  era  of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  bright  hour  of 
William  the  Damned. 

The  glories  of  the  helmet  are  displayed  only  upon  very 
important  occasions.  Other  parts  of  the  uniform  may 
be  worn  at  affairs  of  no  great  importance,  such  as  band 
concerts,  etc.  But  the  full  dress  from  plume  to  boots  is 
the  mark  of  an  event. 

The  firemen  are  social  tyrants  of  a  high  order.  No 
Indian  caste  nor  ancient  European  aristocracy  is  more 
conscious  of  superiority  nor  more  proud  of  its  honorable 
connections. 

The  fire-department  in  the  smaller  towns  is  at  once 
the  police  force,  chamber  of  commerce,  theatrical  society, 
musical  club,  lodge,  and  social  court  of  the  community. 
It  is  the  gage  of  public  culture,  a  board  of  local  improve- 
ments, and  a  city-beautiful  commission.     Indirectly  it 

449 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

has  a  bearing  upon  the  matrimonial  prospects  of  many 
a  fair  damosel  and  her  swain.  For  its  fire-proof  nose  is 
in  everybody's  business  and,  though  it  grieves  us  to  say 
it,  it  has  been  known  to  spread  scandal.  It  brands  the 
pariah  and  keeps  him  efficiently  ostracized  from  decent 
society. 

Herr  MuUer  was  a  member  of  the  Keispelt  fire- 
department.  On  state  occasions  he  would  bring  from  a 
musty  bureau  drawer  his  grand  collection  of  badges  and 
honors  conferred  upon  him  as  a  pipeman  or  pumpman  or 
trombone-player  in  that  select  group. 

No  Grand  Army  man  recounting  the  prowess  of  his 
regiment  could  review  with  greater  enthusiasm  the 
doughty  deeds  responsible  for  each  honor. 

"This,"  he  said,  displaying  a  purple  ribbon  the  gilt 
lettering  on  which  had  been  corroded  to  a  black  rust, 
"was  given  the  Keispelt  fire-department  for  their  gallant 
appearance  at  the  Doomsday  Fair  in  the  capital.  I  was 
with  them  on  that  day,  younger  than  now  and  quite  able 
to  wear  a  uniform,  sir.  The  young  women  threw  roses 
to  us  as  we  marched  to  the  Grand  Rue. 

"Our  helmets  were  gilded  and  our  plumes  were  crim- 
son.   It  was  a  noble  sight,  sir,  a  noble  sight. 

"We  walked  of  course,  from  here  to  the  Stadt  Luxem- 
burg, through  Kopstal  and  Rollingergrund.  I  should 
not  wish  to  take  the  walk  now.  But  what  are  fifteen 
kilomet'  to  youth  I    We  were  a  bit  dusty  when  we  arrived 

450 


THE  FIREMEN 

but  gay — oh,  so  gay  I  And  the  grand-duke  clapped  his 
hands  as  we  marched  by  the  palace.  Never  shall  I 
forget  it." 

Herr  Muller  had  many  such  badges  and  many  such 
reminiscences.  The  only  peculiarity  in  his  endless  reci- 
tal was  that  his  fire-department  seemed  never  to  have 
meddled  with  a  fire.     It  was  created  for  higher  things. 

Do  you  remember  the  ancient  vaudeville  joke  of 
Sweeney,  the  American  fireman  who  died  and  became 
famous  because  his  mourning  comrades  sent  to  his  widow 
a  floral  piece  with  the  inscription:  "Gone  to  his  last 
fire"? 

I  was  forcibly  reminded  of  this  mortuary  jest  when 
Keispelt  assembled  to  pay  its  last  respects  to  Bernard 
Weiss,  a  member  of  the  fire-department  and  an  elector 
of  the  commune,  who  had  acquired  typhoid  and  died. 

An  undertaker  brought  a  coffin  from  Mersch  and  laid 
out  the  late  Barney  on  two  chairs  in  the  bare  little  front 
room  of  his  home.  Because  of  the  throng  that  came  to 
do  honor  to  his  memory,  the  coffin  was  pushed  over  well 
against  a  side  wall  and  the  tall  tapers  threatened  mo- 
mentary damage  to  an  atrocious  lithograph  apprising  the 
world  in  mouth-filling  German  polysyllables  that  Knorr 
soup  was  the  world's  greatest  life-lengthener.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  the  mourners  to  remove  this  anomaly  for  the 
funeral. 

A  few  roses  and  field  flowers  had  been  brought  to  deck 

451 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

the  casket,  but  the  work  of  funereal  decoration  that 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  neighbors  was  a  marvelous 
couronne  mortuaire — a  beaded  wreath,  stiff,  grim  and 
ugly — that  lay  at  the  widest  spot  atop  the  hexagonal 
coffin  lid.  The  couronne  mortuaire,  it  seems  to  me,  is 
typical  of  the  stoicism  with  which  the  nation  uncon- 
sciously regards  death.  The  beaded  wreath  has  no  charm 
of  its  own.    It  is  death's  own  label  and  trade-mark. 

Pagan  as  may  be  the  custom  of  flowers  at  a  funeral, 
flowers  serve  at  least  the  Christian  purpose  of  reminding 
survivors  of  the  naturalness  of  death.  The  flowers  seem 
to  establish  a  link  between  the  life  of  the  growing  fields 
from  which  they  come  and  the  death  within  the  chamber 
where  the  candles  flicker  and  women  converse  in  awed 
whispers.  A  couronne  mortuaire  comes  as  a  shock.  It  is 
like  nothing  in  nature,  neither  in  the  air  above  nor  the 
earth  beneath  nor  in  the  waters  under  the  earth.  It  is  a 
tabloid  of  selfish  mourning,  a  concrete  image  of 
depression. 

The  widow  sat  in  a  corner  near  the  three-decked  stove, 
weeping  as  widows  have  always  wept,  deeply  sensible  of 
the  loss  that  the  man's  own  sons  did  not  seem  to  feel. 

There  was  chill  in  the  house,  the  chill  of  Spring,  heavy 
with  the  moisture  of  melting  snows  and  sickly  sweet  with 
the  perfume  of  early  cherry  blossoms.  The  cherry  per- 
fume seemed  to  turn  back  from  the  doorway  of  the  house, 
unable  to  overcome  the  scents  that  are  always  part  of 

452 


THE  FIREMEN 

an  old  house, — the  pungence  of  stale  wood-smoke;  the 
faint,  acrid  taint  of  moist  plaster. 

A  crone  sat  near  the  widow,  murmuring  over  and  over 
again:  "It  is  too  sad — that  he  should  go.  He  was  so 
good.  Only  last  week — he  was  well.  To-day  he  is  dead. 
It  is  too  sad  I"  There  was  little  variation  in  her  facial 
expression  as  she  intoned  her  chant.  A  little  girl,  pre- 
sumably the  granddaughter  of  the  departed  fireman,  sat 
stiffly  on  the  edge  of  a  rush-bottomed  prie-dieu  across  the 
room,  sobbing  bitterly.  But  there  was  no  other  sign  of 
heartfelt  grief.  The  neighbors  were  sober,  stiffly  so,  as 
if  conscious  that  a  long  face  was  part  of  the  essentially 
religious  ceremony  incident  to  death. 

Even  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  old  man  who  lay 
in  the  yellow  casket  seemed  to  have  little  concern  with 
his  passing.  Their  philosophy  was  written  in  their 
casual  greeting  to  friends,  their  solicitude  for  the  pot-au- 
feu  stewing  in  the  kitchen,  and  their  wholly  unsenti- 
mental comments  upon  the  prospects  of  their  house. 
They  recalled  the  excellent  funeral  that  Cousin  Marie 
of  Arlon  had  had  the  year  before.  They  spoke  feelingly 
concerning  the  profiteering  tendencies  of  undertakers. 
They  discussed  the  uses  to  which  the  dead  man's  fields 
north  of  the  town  could  best  be  put.  And  all  of  this 
was  with  no  apparent  disrespect  for  the  dead. 

Death  was  an  incident,  like  mass  on  Sunday.  It  was 
to  be  expected.    It  could  not  be  forestalled,  and  now  it 

453 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

had  come.  A  good  man  was  gone  and  a  hard  worker  had 
been  freed  from  toil.    Why  worry  about  it? 

How  much  of  this  attitude  was  due  to  their  faith  and 
the  consoling  thought  of  life  after  death  and  how  much 
to  the  hereditary  familiarity  with  the  Destroyer  in  all 
his  varied  forms,  it  would  be  impossible  to  say. 

The  Luxembourgeois  display  little  of  the  avarice  that 
plays  a  large  part  in  peasant  funerals  in  many  districts 
in  France, — the  avarice  that  places  prospect  of  inheri- 
tance above  any  sense  of  loss.  The  people  are  not  lack- 
ing in  filial  devotion  for  all  that  they  take  their  funerals 
philosophically. 

Presently  came  the  priests  of  the  village  attended  by 
black-robed  acolytes.  The  procession  passed  sedately 
and  in  stately  dignity  from  the  church  upon  the  gently 
sloping  hill,  headed  by  a  standard-bearer  with  the  black- 
and-silver  banners  of  church  societies.  Two  censer- 
bearers  preceded  the  celebrant  and  deacons,  contributing 
a  bit  of  fragrant  mist  to  the  morning  haze. 

It  is  a  beautiful  custom,  this  welcoming  of  the  dead 
by  the  church,  a  bit  more  consoling  than  our  ceremonial 
of  carrying  the  corpse  suppliant  to  the  altar  as  to  a  seat 
of  judgment.  In  Luxemburg  it  pleases  the  mourners  to 
believe  that  a  child  of  God  has  gone  home.  Elsewhere 
in  Europe  a  funeral  is  a  sinner's  march  to  his  last 
tribunal. 

The  priests  crowd  into  the  front  room.    The  casket  is 

454 


THE  FIREMEN 

closed.  The  rosary  is  recited.  The  firemen  join  the 
cortege. 

No  one  seems  to  take  it  amiss  that  the  firemen  should 
contribute  a  bit  of  pageantry  to  the  procession.  The  de- 
parted burgher  was  a  fireman  himself.  What  more 
natural  than  that  his  companions  in  this  the  greatest 
social  order  in  all  the  duchy  should  lend  an  aristocratic 
atmosphere  to  the  obsequies*? 

Outside  the  door,  Herr  Glaetzner  is  tuning  up  a  bat- 
tered trombone.  Its  sputtering  bass  notes  blend  weirdly 
with  the  moaning  responses  to  the  prayers  of  the  priests. 
The  rest  of  the  orchestral  choir  has  pushed  with  some 
show  of  importance  into  the  little  front  room,  crumpled 
brass  horns  and  all.  The  firemen,  proud  and  dignified, 
doff  their  tin  helmets  and  stand  in  defiance  of  death  itself 
against  the  wall. 

Prayers  are  completed  and  the  procession  starts.  Once 
more  the  banners  are  to  the  forefront,  then  the  priests, 
the  firemen,  the  casket,  the  mourners.  Six  stalwart 
burghers — members,  of  course,  of  the  fire-fighters'  guild 
— carry  the  coffin  to  the  church.  The  whole  town  has 
mobilized  for  the  funeral.  For  deaths  are  a  community 
affair,  a  matter  of  concern  to  the  entire  electorate. 

Save  for  the  firemen  there  is  little  of  the  picturesque 
in  the  long  procession.  The  mourners — relatives, 
friends,  or  merely  neighbors  of  the  decedent — are  in 
black  because  black  is  the  usual  costume  in  the  district. 

455 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

The  vestments  of  the  priests  are  black  and  white  because 
that  is  prescribed  in  the  ritual  of  the  Catholic  Church. 
The  fire-department,  hampered  by  no  such  rules,  is  a 
long  streak  of  red-and-gold  brilliance. 

The  band  plays  a  dolorous  air,  faintly  reminiscent  of 
the  German  Lieder  and  astonishingly  suggestive  of  an 
Hawaiian  plaint.  But  the  Hawaiian  element  is  speedily 
suppressed  in  the  blasting  of  the  bass  and  an  amazing 
indisposition  on  the  part  of  the  treble  instruments  to 
play  any  given  note  in  unison.  But  there  is  something 
impressive  in  the  solemnity  of  the  thing.  The  procession 
will  furnish  a  topic  of  conversation  in  the  town  for 
weeks,  until  the  fire-department  is  turned  out  for  another 
funeral  or  for  a  kermess. 

The  corpse  is  carried  into  the  church.  An  admiral, 
in  a  red  robe  with  a  plumed  hat  and  carrying  a  long 
brazen  staff,  meets  the  cortege  with  due  solemnity  and 
escorts  the  pall-bearers  to  the  bier  in  front  of  the  altar. 

There,  when  the  casket  has  been  placed  between  the 
tall  candles,  the  couronne  mortuaire  and  the  helmet  and 
baton  of  the  departed  are  laid  at  the  head  and  the  requiem 
proceeds  amid  Gregorian  dirges  the  more  awesome  be- 
cause rendered  without  the  accompaniment  of  organ  or 
other  instrument. 

During  the  mass  the  friends  of  Herr  Weiss  pass  up 
behind  the  altar  and  back  to  their  pews  again,  depositing, 
during  their  passage,  numerous  French  sous,  German 

456 


THE  FIREMEN 

pewter  pfennigs,  or  the  washer-like  minor  currency  of 
the  duchy.  These  offerings  are  to  insure  the  saying  of 
masses  for  the  repose  of  the  fireman's  soul. 

After  the  services  the  musicians,  standard-bearers,  and 
ornate  fire-department  file  out  of  the  church  in  the  order 
of  their  entrance  and  stand  about  the  grave  in  the  near- 
by cemetery  while  the  cracked  bell  in  the  spire  tolls  its 
last  message  of  sympathy. 

The  casket  is  lowered.  The  firemen  doff  their  helmets 
and  bow  their  heads.  Each  in  turn  marches  past  the 
grave  and  throws  in  clods  of  earth. 

Formerly  it  was  the  custom  to  bury  with  the  deceased 
fireman  his  brass  hat  and  other  ceremonial  accoutre- 
ments,— a  survival,  perhaps,  of  ancient  Frankish  rites. 
But  a  variety  of  causes  prompted  an  end  to  this  waste 
of  ornament.  Now  the  helmet  goes  back  to  a  rack  in  the 
fire-department's  hall  for  issuance  to  the  next  new 
member. 

The  mist  has  lifted  from  the  hills  as  the  cortege  winds 
out  of  the  cemetery.  There  is  a  more  tangible  scent  of 
cherry  blossoms  in  the  heavy,  soothing  air.  The  tang  of 
the  cold  is  gone  from  the  sunlit  spaces. 

Similarly  the  mourners  have  thrown  off  the  burden  of 
their  grief  as  they  pass  through  the  old  stone  gates  of  the 
churchyard.  Death  has  come;  it  will  come  again.  And 
in  the  meantime  there  is  Life  I 

At  the  late  dwelling-place  of  Herr  Weiss  there  is  a 

457 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

dinner  spread  for  the  intimates  of  the  family — a  sedate, 
dignified  feast  at  which  the  departed  member  of  the 
household  is  represented  by  a  vacant  chair.  As  an  invis- 
ible guest  he  is  now  attending  his  own  strange  obsequies 
just  as  he  sat  at  the  funeral  table  of  his  father  before 
him.  He  would  not  begrudge  those  whom  he  has  left 
their  surcease  from  mourning. 


458 


CHAPTER  XXX 
MARRIAGE 


The  Bride  and  Her  Garter 

Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


MARRIAGE 


FRAU  MULLER  met  me,  as  I  came  downstairs 
into  the  kitchen  one  day,  and  announced  im- 
pressively: 

"Katrina  Spiess  is  about  to  marry  herself." 

"So'?"  I  inquired  with  the  interest  that  this  important 
statement  seemed  to  merit.  "When  does  the  event 
occur?" 

"Oh,  that  is  not  known  yet,"  declared  Frau  Muller. 
"They  have  just  signed  the  contract."  She  babbled  on 
in  the  usual  gossip  of  weddings  the  world  over, — the 
desirability  of  the  favored  youth,  his  possible  inheri- 
tance in  lands  and  cattle,  the  scandalous  habits  of  his 
great-grandfather,  the  amount  of  the  bride's  dowry,  her 
youth,  and  bits  of  her  family  history.  Only  the  smoke 
rising  from  the  Eisenkuchen  interrupted  the  discussion. 

She  continued  as  she  laid  the  steaming  waffles  on  the 
plate  before  me. 

"She  is  a  very  pretty  girl,"  declared  the  good  dame. 

I  remembered  Katrina  as  a  petite  blonde,  too  young 
to  have  lost  the  blooming  freshness  that  Europe's  peas- 
ant women  soon  sacrifice  to  the  necessities  of  hard  labor. 

461 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"Yes,"  I  agreed,  "she  is  very  pretty.  But  young,  is 
she  not?" 

"Sixteen,"  returned  the  Frau.  "Young  enough  and 
old  enough.  She  should  wait  a  while,  however.  She 
should  learn  more  of  hard  work;  for  that,  after  all,  is 
what  makes  married  happiness.  A  pretty  face  soon  goes. 
It  is  only  the  strong  back  that  keeps  a  family  prosperous 
and  a  husband  contented.  Ah,  when  I  was  married,  I 
was  as  slender  as  a  willow  I  And  the  young  men  of  the 
neighborhood  crowded  our  house  until  my  mother  or- 
dered them  all  out.  I  do  not  say  it  boastingly,  mein 
Herr.  It  is  the  truth.  In  Mersch  and  Gosseldange  and 
Lintgen  and  Kehlen  and  Steinfort  and  Kopstal  and 
Kapellen,  even  in  the  capital  itself,  I  had  many 
admirers." 

The  madame  breathed  a  bulky  sigh. 

"A  girl  likes  to  know  that  she  is  popular,  even  though 
it  excites  jealousy.  We  women  are  very  vain.  I  wonder 
if  women  are  like  that  in  America." 

Apparently  she  concluded  that  they  were,  for  she 
went  on  without  waiting  for  a  reply. 

"But  the  time  came  when  I  must  go  to  marry  myself, 
so  I  chose  John  Aluller.  And  I  have  been  happy.  It 
was  a  good  choice.  John  had  this  house  with  six  rooms. 
He  owned  also  the  farm  to  the  west  of  here,  and  two  good 
horses  and  a  cow.  I  should  have  liked  to  marry  Michael 
Molitor,  who  became  a  gendarme  and  looked  very  beau- 

462 


MARRIAGE 

tiful  in  his  splendid  uniform.  But  I  was  a  practical  girl, 
sir.  I  foresaw  that  if  I  married  I  should  have  children, 
and  I  wished  to  be  sure  that  they  would  be  fed  and 
clothed." 

"You  loved  John*?"  I  inquired,  a  bit  puzzled. 

"Of  course.  He  was  a  fine  man  and  good  to  me.  Why 
should  n't  I  love  him^  But,  then,  had  I  married  Michael 
I  suppose  I  should  have  loved  him,  too. 

"I  am  no  longer  as  slender  as  the  willow  and  I  know 
that  I  am  not  beautiful.  But  John  respects  me.  He 
knows  that  there  is  no  woman  in  all  of  Luxemburg  who 
can  work  more  steadily.  My  house  is  clean.  I  can  cook 
without  extravagance.  I  can  feed  the  stock  and  care  for 
them,  and  milk  the  cow  and  churn  butter,  and  I  can  do 
a  man's  work  in  the  fields. 

"I  do  not  say  this  boastingly,  mein  Herr.  You  have 
lived  here  long  enough  to  know  that  it  is  the  truth.  1 
mention  it  only  because  Katrina  will  have  to  do  the 
same  things.  And  she  is  now  but  a  child  with  a  pretty 
face." 

I  wondered  if  the  little  blonde  Katrina  would  ever  be 
able  to  tramp  all  day  behind  a  plodding  Belgian  horse, 
plowing  a  stubborn  field.  And  I  decided  that  she  would 
not.  If  physical  strength  were  considered  the  prime 
requisite  in  a  wife,  I  feared  for  Katrina's  future. 

But  by  that  time  I  had  learned  that  in  Luxemburg 
female  farm  labor  is  not  so  general  as  it  is  in  other  parts 

463 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

of  Europe,  The  congestion  of  population  and  the  small 
size  of  the  farms  have  brought  about  a  balance  between 
labor  and  workers.  The  woman  is  still  a  drudge  who 
starts  her  chores  in  the  barnyard  at  daylight  and  finishes 
them  in  the  kitchen  late  at  night.  But  her  lot  has  been 
considerably  improved.  She  is  not  a  work-animal,  as  in 
parts  of  France,  or  a  slave  as  in  parts  of  Germany. 

Any  one  who  doubted  woman's  position  in  the  house- 
hold had  only  to  look  at  the  case  of  Frau  Muller  herself. 
John  might  be  head  of  the  house.  The  Government 
recognized  him  as  such,  but  when  she  made  a  suggestion 
he  complied  with  it.  When  she  spoke  he  jumped.  It 
was  obvious  that  any  labor  she  might  do  in  the  fields 
would  be  a  task  of  her  own  choosing. 

Katrina's  wedding,  despite  the  advice  of  crones  who 
counseled  a  delay  of  a  year  or  more,  was  celebrated  a 
month  afterward.  I  attended  with  the  Mullers  and 
nearly  all  the  rest  of  the  village. 

The  bride  and  her  attendants  might  be  heard  running 
about  the  upper  floor  of  the  house.  Their  tense  whispers 
and  hysterical  laughter  sifted  through  the  unplastered 
ceiling.  Downstairs  the  bridegroom,  looking  like  a  pic- 
ture of  death  and  devastation,  sat  near  the  door,  as 
languidly  as  a  pair  of  tight  black  trousers  would  permit. 
On  his  knees  dangled  the  duchy's  badge  of  holy  matri- 
mony, a  borrowed  silk  hat  that  bore  sundry  and  divers 
dents  from  previous  ceremonials. 

464 


;^ 

o 
o 

m 
H 

< 

a, 


O 


MARRIAGE 

His  festive  friends,  showing  all  the  humor  that  is 
customary  at  serious  affairs  in  which  some  one  else  is  to 
be  the  victim,  made  loud  personal  remarks  of  somewhat 
broad  interpretation  that  caused  many  of  the  chubby 
damsels  to  hang  their  heads. 

Promptly  on  time — mark  this  greatest  of  marvels — 
the  bride  came  down  the  stairs.  On  her  father's  arm  she 
set  out  for  the  church  with  scarcely  a  glance  at  the  bride- 
groom. He  and  his  widowed  mother  followed.  Then 
came  other  members  of  the  family  and  a  number  of  self- 
conscious  men  and  awkward  girls,  the  remainder  of  the 
wedding-party. 

The  bride  was  clad  in  white  muslin  and  veiled  in  the 
same  material.  Her  simple  coiffure  was  finished  with  a 
wreath  of  wax  flowers  that  probably  had  been  doing  duty 
at  all  the  weddings  in  the  community  for  the  past  ten 
years.  Her  wooden-soled  shoes  peeped  comically  from 
beneath  her  long  gown.  But  her  golden  curls,  wayward 
and  unwilling  to  stay  pent  beneath  the  veiling,  dis- 
tracted the  attention  of  those  who  would  have  criticized 
her  feet.  Somehow  she  had  the  appearance  of  a  very 
pretty  and  ingenuous  little  goddess  whose  baggage  had 
gotten  mixed  with  that  of  a  slattern  on  her  journey  to 
earth. 

The  nuptial  service  at  the  church  was  in  no  way  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  France.  It  was  sedate  and  solemn. 
There  was  no  wedding-march  from  Lohengrin,  but  the 

465 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

bridegroom  lost  the  ring  and  the  bride  became  very  much 
excited.  None  would  have  doubted  that  this  was  a 
wedding. 

Afterward  the  newly  married  pair  set  out  for  their 
home,  followed  by  the  long  procession  of  friends.  The 
entire  village  added  to  this  part  of  the  festivities.  Many 
a  farmer  quit  work  to  greet  the  bride  as  she  left  the 
church  and  drink  her  health  in  weak  beer  or  villainous 
Quetsch  in  one  of  the  three  inns. 

The  husband  picked  up  his  bride  at  the  entrance  of  the 
house  and  carried  her  over  the  threshold,  a  custom  almost 
as  old  as  marriage  itself.  The  reason  for  this — accord- 
ing to  Frau  Muller,  my  mentor — is  to  outwit  the  evil 
spirits  that  would  rob  the  poor  girl  of  her  happiness  at 
the  very  outset  of  her  wedded  life.  Should  she  trip  on 
the  threshold  as  she  entered  her  own  home  it  would  be  a 
terrible  omen.  So  the  wily  burghers  forestall  the  opera- 
tion of  any  such  curse  by  making  it  impossible  for  her  to 
trip.  Should  the  man  stumble  in  carrying  her,  it  would 
make  no  diiference.  The  patron  demon  of  ill  luck  would 
be  beaten  on  a  technicality. 

Marriage  is  an  all-day  affair  in  Luxemburg.  Though 
the  wife  may  never  have  time  to  celebrate  again  during 
her  life,  she  cannot  say  that  merriment  was  lacking  on 
her  wedding-day.  She  is  seated  at  the  head  of  a  long 
table  about  which  have  gathered  friends  and  relatives, 
all  of  them  in  their  funereal  best,  each  with  a  stock  of 

466 


MARRIAGE 

pleasantry  that  he  must  recite  at  once.  The  heroine  of 
the  piece  would  be  deafened  were  she  not  used  to  the 
Teutonic  method  of  polite  conversation. 

Little  Katrina  looked  very  demure  and  startled  as  she 
sat  dow^n  beside  her  husband  at  the  banquet-table.  All 
of  this  was  a  fairy  tale  to  her, — a  fairy  tale,  I  thought, 
which  was  quite  likely  to  have  an  unhappy  ending.  She 
said  very  little,  even  when  spoken  to,  and  ignored  the 
coarse  jests  of  her  bridesmaids. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  the  wedding-party  sat 
down  to  eat.  Few  of  the  attendants  had  eaten  breakfast, 
so  the  earliness  of  the  hour  was  no  barrier  to  appetite. 

Soup, — immense  quantities  of  the  homely  potage 
fermiere^ — roast  ducks,  three  or  four  of  them;  roast  pig, 
spiced  and  sugared;  baked  ham  whose  mahogany  color 
testified  to  long  months  of  seasoning  in  the  great  chim- 
ney of  the  kitchen  fireplace;  smoked,  fried  and  boiled 
sausages;  steaming  bowls  of  cafe  au  lait;  and  great  pans 
of  gateaux  of  all  sizes,  shapes,  and  flavors,  some  of  them 
coated  with  quantities  of  real  chocolate, — all  were  piled 
upon  the  table  at  once.  Banquet  etiquette  in  Luxem- 
burg does  not  overlook  the  fact  that  the  main  essential  of 
eating  is  to  eat. 

After  the  cafe  au  lait  had  disappeared  came  the  second 
and  last  course,  a  barrel  of  v'ln  rouge,  which  was  rolled 
up  close  to  the  table  to  save  steps  in  the  serving. 

467 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

From  that  time  on  this  festival  would  have  given 
pleasant  employment  to  Gargantua  himself. 

Speeches  followed,  of  course.  Speeches  and  red  wine 
seem  to  be  correlated.  Choral  activities  developed 
early  in  the  proceedings  and  continued  until  music  had 
been  smothered  by  vinous  incoherence. 

The  bride  was  spared  one  ancient  French  custom  that 
still  may  be  found  in  parts  of  the  Ardennes,  the  singing 
of  the  "Song  of  the  Bride"  by  a  group  of  toothless  hags 
who  make  a  business  of  this  sort  of  minstrelsy.  "The 
Song  of  the  Bride"  is  a  recitative  of  her  life  history  and 
that  of  her  husband,  rendered  in  a  cacophonous  mono- 
tone. It  is  a  dreary  thing  even  in  its  happier  passages, 
and  calculated  to  drive  all  the  joy  out  of  even  a  Luxem- 
burg wedding.    Fortunately  it  is  disappearing. 

So  far  the  wedding  of  Katrina  had  proceeded  with 
much  the  same  routine  as  that  which  governs  in  towns 
along  the  Meuse.  But  local  custom  was  still  to  collect 
its  due.  The  first  instalment  of  the  debt  to  tradition  was 
paid  when  a  basso-profundo  outcry  filtered  up  from 
under  the  table  and  a  group  of  laughing  youths  dragged 
out  Henry  Riefschneider,  holding  his  eye.  He  blushed, 
sat  down,  and  drank  deeply  of  the  vin  rouge  while  the 
crowd  jeered  at  him. 

All  this  was  a  mystery  that  to  the  crowd  seemed  to  be 
no  mystery  at  all.  They  seemed  to  understand  perfectly 
why  Heinrich  had  dropped  under  the  table  and  how  it 

468 


MARRIAGE 

had  come  about  that  he  was  nursing  a  swelling  over  his 
eye.  But  there  was  no  explanation  for  another  half- 
hour.  Then  a  second  tumult  arose  from  the  cavern  be- 
low the  feast.  Wilhelm  Meisterheim  emerged  as  had 
Heinrich.  There  was  a  livid  streak  across  the  back  of 
his  hand  and  he  was  a  bit  angry. 

"It  is  not  fair,"  he  declared  cryptically.  ''She  wears 
pins.    I  scratched  myself." 

Nc  one  sympathized  with  him.  The  puzzle  was  pass- 
ing beyond  my  comprehension  when  the  bride  gave  a 
frightened  little  shriek  and  leaped  up  from,  her  place. 
She  stood  upon  her  chair,  holding  her  skirts  tight  about 
her  ankles  and  looking  down  at  the  floor  as  if  frightened 
by  a  mouse. 

The  wedding-party  seemed  to  have  gone  wild.  The 
men  and  women  all  were  standing  and  screaming  excit- 
edly and  the  acme  of  din  seemed  to  have  been  reached. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  human  voices  could  create  a 
greater  volume  of  sound.  But  then  Teutonic  guffaws 
gave  way  to  Teutonic  cheers  and  the  very  rafters  shook. 

Johann  Weber,  dusty  and  flushed,  had  crawled  out 
from  under  the  table  and  was  holding  aloft  a  strange 
trophy, — a  woman's  garter.  One  had  only  to  look  at 
Katrina  to  realize  where  he  had  obtained  it. 

By  way  of  forfeit  he  claimed  a  kiss  from  the  bride. 
But  he  did  not  return  the  garter.     Instead  he  carried  it 

469 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

in  triumph  to  Marie  Dufour,  the  little  French  girl  who 
had  been  his  partner  in  the  procession. 

Laughingly  she  raised  her  skirts  and  lifted  her  foot. 
Laughingly  he  snapped  the  circlet  about  her  knee.  Then 
he  kissed  her  and  both  sat  down.  The  great  event  of  the 
wedding  celebration  was  over. 

Frau  Muller  had  difficulty  in  explaining  all  this  to 
me.  She  was  not  certain  of  much  of  it,  herself.  But 
some  of  her  neighbors  were  better  informed  and  willing 
to  talk. 

The  theft  of  the  bride's  garter  has  been  a  custom  in 
the  duchy  since  women  began  to  wear  garters.  Origi- 
nally it  probably  had  no  significance  except  as  a  trick  to 
plague  the  bridegroom  and  tease  the  bride.  With  the 
years,  however,  it  began  to  take  on  mystic  connections. 
Success  in  the  theft  of  the  garter  came  to  be  looked  upon 
as  an  omen  of  good  luck  in  marriage  for  the  youth  who 
had  stolen  it  and  for  the  young  woman  upon  whose  leg 
he  should  place  it.  The  bestowal  of  this  "order  of  the 
garter"  did  not  necessarily  presage  marriage  between  the 
donor  and  recipient,  but  frequently  it  had  that  result. 
Inasmuch  as  the  youth  invariably  would  give  the  coveted 
trophy  to  the  lady  of  his  choice,  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at. 

Teuton,  French,  and  native  oddities  mark  marriages 
in  the  duchy.  Along  the  Moselle  and  Our  many  villages 
still  celebrate  Folterabend — the  night  before  the  wed- 

470 


MARRIAGE 

ding — by  breaking  glass  and  chinavvare  on  the  threshold 
of  the  bride's  new  home.  This  is  distinctly  a  German 
custom  in  which  the  object  is  the  pacification  of  the 
Poltergeist,  a  goblin  whose  sole  purpose  in  existence  is 
to  maintain  a  sort  of  perpetual  charivari.  About  Die- 
kirch,  where  the  Druid  ruins  bow  to  the  east,  one  may 
view  marriage  rites  more  ancient.  Young  couples  laugh- 
ingly plight  their  troth  by  clasping  hands  through  the 
arch  in  the  Deivelselter  ("Didos  Altar"?),  not  knowing 
that  they  are  observing  a  custom  which  the  Breton  peas- 
ants consider  peculiarly  their  own. 

In  the  rocky  Ardennes  one  may  still  see  the  "testing 
of  the  bride,"  another  ceremonial  almost  as  ancient  as 
Eve.  The  bride-to-be  drops  a  pin  from  her  bodice  into 
a  well  or  a  stream.  If  it  floats  her  fiance  knows  that  she 
is  virtuous.    If  it  sinks  he  casts  her  off. 

This  appears  to  be  a  severe  test  if  one  has  never  seen 
it  performed.  Actually  it  does  not  interrupt  many  mar- 
riages. Whatever  may  be  a  Luxemburg  woman's  knowl- 
edge of  her  own  integrity,  she  learns  in  childhood  that 
pins  have  a  way  of  sinking.  So  she  takes  no  chances. 
The  pin  that  she  drops  into  the  water,  here  as  in  Brit- 
tany, is  usually  a  long  thorn,  delicately  carved  and  use- 
ful as  a  bodice  ornament  but  still  unsinkable. 

Childish  as  may  be  all  these  wedding  ceremonials  they 
certainly  produce  permanent  weddings.  Women  who 
marry  in  Luxemburg  stay  married.  Illegitimacy  is  vir- 
tually unknown  in  the  duchy. 

471 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 


"We  Are  the  Salt  of  the  Earth" 

"But   what   good  came   of   it   at   last?" 
Quoth  little  Peterkin  : — 

"Why  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"But 't  was  a  famous  victory." 

— SOUTHEY. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

OLD  KASPAR  sat  by  his  cottage  door  repairing 
a  strip  of  decrepit  harness.  There  was  a  smell 
of  pot-au-feu  in  the  evening  breeze  that  swept 
up  from  the  cool  reaches  of  the  Kopstal  ravine,  and  a 
rattle  of  pots  and  pans  echoed  in  the  street.  A  blue  twi- 
light was  settling  down  over  the  purple  crevasses  beyond 
the  town  and  the  day's  work  was  done. 

There  was  an  open  space  before  Kaspar's  doorway, 
— an  open  space  between  two  tinted  stone  houses  that 
stood  like  the  sides  of  a  great  picture-frame,  a  crude 
setting  for  a  wonderful  landscape.  Red  roses  in  the 
foreground,  dark  rocks  blending  into  cool  green  where 
the  cliff  dipped  down  to  the  Mamer;  and  beyond,  the 
square-cut  forests,  a  dim  mysterious  pattern  where  the 
slope  arose  again  to  the  sky. 

Sharp  against  the  horizon  stood  the  point  of  a  German 
triangulation  station  and  farther  on,  in  dim  outline,  the 
crest  of  another  craggy  hill.  The  glow  of  the  Steinfort 
furnaces  was  against  the  twilight  in  the  distance  at 
Kaspar's  right. 

There  is  idyllic  beauty  in  Luxemburg  in  mid-spring. 

475 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Sheltered  by  its  own  hills  from  the  northern  blasts  that 
would  seem  to  be  a  part  of  its  climate,  it  bursts  into 
bloom  quickly  after  the  melting  of  the  snows.  Its  slopes 
are  steep,  its  drainage  rapid.  Its  thread-like  streams 
swell  to  mountain  torrents  and  presently  the  promise  of 
a  new  harvest  is  in  the  fields. 

A  shrill  voice  from  inside  the  cottage  rose  above  the 
banging  of  ironstone  china.  The  conversation  was  in 
the  strange  language  of  the  duchy, — part  French,  part 
German,  part  Spanish,  part  Celtic, — but  the  tone  was 
that  of  the  aggrieved  wife  of  any  country. 

Madame  Kaspar  was  incensed  because  old  Kaspar 
had  tracked  up  the  clean  blue  tile  of  her  hallway  with 
his  muddy  boots.  It  seems  that  the  world  over,  so  long 
as  men  shall  live  in  houses  and  wear  boots,  they  must 
track  mud  upon  clean  floors  and  hear  about  it  from  their 
wives. 

Kaspar  answered  with  the  patience  of  admitted  guilt. 
He  stated  that  presently — as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
saving  four  marks  in  the  repair  of  the  outworn  harness 
— he  would  consent  to  do  the  menial  work  himself,  a 
concession  that  silenced  if  it  failed  to  appease  the  wrath 
from  within. 

"She  speaks  of  mud  on  the  floor,"  said  Kaspar,  with  a 
half-smile  as  he  made  room  for  me  on  the  door-step. 
"Mud  on  the  floor,  and  a  year  ago  a  section  of  American 
artillery  was  quartered  in  her  house  I      They  thought 

476 


A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

nothing  of  mud  nor  of  clean  floors.  Before  them  for 
four  long  years  we  had  the  Prussians.  The  Prussians 
owned  the  country  then,  Monsieur,  and  we  were  very 
sad.  For  it  seemed  that  they  would  always  own  it. 
Women  forget  these  things.  They  turn  readily  to  the 
needs  of  peace  without  a  thought  of  the  troublous  times 
that  were  just  yesterday.  Eh  bieni  That  is  the  trouble 
with  humanity.  It  forgets  I  If  it  remembered  there 
would  be  no  more  wars. 

He  glanced  toward  the  south,  where  the  flashes  of  red 
from  the  steel-mills  increased  in  brilliancy  as  the  twi- 
light gloom  deepened. 

"I  sat  at  this  very  door  and  heard  the  roar  of  the  guns 
at  Verdun,  Monsieur,"  he  said.  "Always — morning, 
noon  and  night — there  was  a  rumble  of  death  in  the  air, 
and  our  windows  rattled  and  our  floors  trembled. 

"Wt  were  unprepared  for  war  when  it  came.  There 
had  been  no  lack  of  farm  labor  that  year.  French  and 
Germans  both  swarmed  the  duchy  in  nineteen-fourteen 
and  worked  willingly  for  a  few  sous  a  day.  Then  the 
papers  told  us  of  the  trouble  in  Austria.  The  trouble 
seemed  to  us  to  be  very  remote.  War,  in  spite  of  our 
long  acquaintance  with  Prussia,  seemed  to  be  impossible. 
One  day  the  laborers  disappeared. 

"It  was  as  if  they  had  received  a  signal.  At  night  they 
were  here.  In  the  morning  they  were  gone.  My  cousin 
who  lives  in  Arlon  came  over  to  say  that  the  French 

477 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

troops  were  concentrating  near  Longwy  and  that  some 
railroad  tracks  between  Luxemburg  and  France  had  been 
torn  up  at  the  frontier. 

"That  was  serious,  of  course,  but  the  papers  still  told 
of  parleys.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  there  would 
be  another  eighteen-seventy  merely  because  an  archduke 
had  been  shot  at  Sarajevo.  We  were  still  confident  that 
good  sense  would  prevail,  when  we  awoke  one  morning 
to  see  the  roads  dim  with  Feldgrau.  From  here, 
Monsieur,  if  your  eyes  are  good,  you  can  see  three  roads, 
— the  one  before  the  house  here,  the  one  in  the  valley, 
and  the  one  over  on  the  opposite  crest.  Over  all  three 
the  Prussians  were  marching  toward  France. 

*'I  have  a  niece  in  the  capital.  Monsieur.  Her  hus- 
band was  a  chemin-de-ferist.  She  came  here  one  eve- 
ning to  tell  us  that  a  million  men  were  to  be  engaged  in 
the  war  and  we  smiled  at  her.  It  seemed  so  childish. 
Why  should  the  Germans  send  an  army  of  that  size 
across  Luxemburg  when  they  could  strike  through  Alsace 
as  they  had  done  in  the  war  of  eighteen-seventy?  It  did 
not  seem  right.  But  she  said  that  the  troops  were  pour- 
ing toward  the  border,  not  by  mere  divisions  but  by 
army  corps. 

''The  chamber  of  deputies  had  opposed  the  invasion. 
They  stood  upon  the  rights  of  neutrality  guaranteed  to 
Luxemburg  under  the  treaties  signed  at  Vienna.  But 
the  Germans  were  all-powerful.    Thev  were  determined 

478 


A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

to  come  through  and  the  mobile  forces  of  the  duchy  aside 
from  those  on  duty  at  permanent  stations  at  that  time 
numbered  just  a  few  dozen  men. 

"There  was  a  legend  that  Marie  Adelaide  had  met  a 
German  staff  officer's  car  as  it  came  up  the  road  from 
Treves  and  that  she  had  thrown  herself  in  front  of  it  to 
prevent  the  Germans  from  passing.  That  is  not  true.  I 
do  not  know  whether  Sa  Altesse  was  in  favor  of  the  Ger- 
mans as  has  been  charged,  or  an  ardent  patriot  as  she 
afterward  declared  herself  to  be.  But  I  do  know  that 
she  was  not  foolish.  Eh  bien !  What  would  have  been 
the  use  of  a  young  girl's  trying  to  stop  all  that  vast  army? 

"The  German  officers  came  into  the  capital  and 
assured  the  president  of  the  council  that  they  were  birds 
of  passage  and  that  they  would  not  stay  longer  than  nec- 
essary or  put  the  people  to  any  inconvenience.  Mon 
Dieu  I    In  two  days  the  country  was  theirs. 

"All  day  long  at  half-hour  intervals  the  troop  trains 
came  down  out  of  Prussia.  Germany  seemed  to  have 
gathered  all  the  engines  in  the  world,  for  few  of  them 
came  back  over  our  tracks. 

"Then  one  morning  we  awakened  to  see  the  artillery 
coming  through.  It  was  a  marvelous  sight.  Guns,  guns, 
guns,  on  every  hill-crest,  in  every  hollow;  splendid 
horses;  fresh,  healthy-looking  men  in  new  uniforms. 

"Many  of  the  soldiers  were  frightened.  One  officer 
billeted  in  this  house  told  me  that  he  had  been  expecting 

479 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

to  be  killed  by  French  patrols  as  soon  as  he  crossed  the 
frontier  into  the  duchy.  The  German  staff  had  spread 
the  reports  that  the  French  had  taken  possession  of  the 
fortress  of  Luxemburg  and  had  manned  it  with  mobile 
guns.  The  German  soldiers  were  confident  that  nothing 
could  defeat  Germany,  but  they  were  very  nervous 
nevertheless.  They  seemed  to  think  that  they  had  not 
long  to  live." 

"The  premonition  was  well  founded,"  I  commented. 

"It  was,  Monsieur.  The  guns  that  passed  through  this 
town  to  the  south  are  rust  by  now,  and  most  of  the  men 
who  took  the  road  to  Arlon  are  dust.  So  is  the  empire 
that  drove  them. 

"There  was  fighting  at  Longwy,  Longuyon,  and  Ethe. 
We  heard  about  it  from  wounded  men  who  came  back. 
We  were  close  enough  to  hear  the  guns.  But  the  echoes 
were  muffled.  To  us  they  seemed  like  the  thunder  of  a 
summer  shower.  It  was  hard  for  us  to  imagine  that  such 
sounds  could  mean  death. 

"Then  the  French  resistance  stiffened.  There  was  bat- 
tling for  the  crossing  of  the  Meuse  at  Stenay  and  there 
was  bloody  fighting  in  the  Argonne  forest.  We  received 
only  slight  information  concerning  all  this.  The  Ger- 
mans had  taken  over  all  the  telephone  lines  for  military 
purposes  and  the  newspapers  printed  only  such  meager 
reports  as  were  issued  officially. 

480 


Cjerman  artillery  in  retreat  through  Luxemburg  city— x\ovembcr  1918 


^^i^iii 


i. /¥ ''•I.I   ffc  ■  #iG 

The  German  Retreat  of  November,  1918 

LUXEMBURG   CITY 


A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

"The  kaiser  came  to  Luxemburg  city  with  his  whole 
staff.  How  long  he  remained  there  I  do  not  know.  A 
whole  section  of  the  city  was  roped  off  and  placed  under 
guard  to  accommodate  him.  That,  Monsieur,  did  not 
endear  the  Prussians  to  us.  It  was  a  bit  high-handed, 
coming  as  it  did  from  a  friendly  power  that  had  assured 
us  that  any  violation  of  neutrality  would  be  merely 
temporary. 

"Then  the  troop  movements  became  siower. 

"The  German  advance  was  meeting  some  resistance  in 
Lorraine  and  the  artillery  began  to  congest  our  roads.  I 
have  seen  right  here  in  this  community  miles  and  miles 
of  cannon  and  hundreds  of  men  asleep  under  them  in 
the  rain.  The  officers  insisted  that  we  turn  out  our  own 
cattle  and  horses  to  give  shelter  to  the  horses  of  the  army 
artillery.  We  had  no  choice  I  But  no  billets  were  asked 
for  for  the  men.  The  answer  was  simple:  A  horse  was 
worth  four  thousand  marks.  A  man  cost  nothing  except 
a  mother's  tears, — and  there  were  plenty  of  those  in 
Germany. 

"I  began  to  see  what  the  war  was  going  to  be. 

"There  was  much  more  of  that  later  when  the  crown- 
prince's  army  was  massing  before  Verdun.  I  believe  that 
there  were  more  German  soldiers  in  the  capital  at  that 
time  than  there  were  citizens  in  the  whole  duchy  in  times 
of  peace. 

"My  niece  brought  reports  that  the  French  had  struck 

481 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

a  counter-blow  at  Pont-a-Mousson  and  that  the  Germans 
were  rushing  troops  to  that  sector.  Her  husband  could 
see  that  from  the  manner  in  which  the  troop  trains  were 
being  routed.  We  did  not  learn  until  long  afterward 
that  it  was  Joffre's  feint  at  the  east  flank  of  his  line  to 
make  the  Prussians  believe  that  it  was  there  he  had 
massed  his  strength.  A  Bavarian  cavalry  officer  told  me 
about  it  later. 

"Then  came  the  first  Battle  of  the  Marne.  That  did 
not  affect  us  greatly,  here.  We  knew,  of  course,  that 
there  had  been  a  great  battle  and  after  a  while  we  came 
also  to  know  that  the  Germans  had  been  defeated.  But 
there  was  no  immediate  information. 

"After  that  we  were  in  the  war  and  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  forget  it.  It  seemed  that  we  could  never  live 
through  a  year  of  it.  But  we  did,  somehow.  We  lived 
waiting  for  the  inevitable  advance  of  the  Allies.  For  we 
realized  that  Germany  could  never  win,  when  she  had 
failed  with  the  road  to  Paris  open  before  her. 

"The  concentration  directed  against  Verdun  brought 
much  hardship  to  the  German  soldiers  who  were  filling 
our  roads.  The  crown-prince  established  headquarters  in 
Metz  and  there  were  many  scandals  concerning  his  activ- 
ities. It  is  known  that  he  made  trips  back  to  Luxemburg 
city  repeatedly  and  the  name  of  a  certain  Grafin  with  an 
estate  south  of  the  capital  was  linked  with  his.    Some  of 

482 


A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

the  Prussian  hussars  openly  drank  her  health  in  stolen 
wine  in  this  very  house.    It  was  nauseating. 

"The  snow  came.  But  there  was  no  change  in  the 
policy  of  billeting  the  horses  and  letting  the  men  sleep 
in  the  roads.  The  troops  that  dragged  their  seventy- 
sevens  down  to  Verdun  were  seasoned.  Many  of  them 
had  been  wounded.  They  had  seen  war  at  close  range 
and  did  not  seem  to  mind  the  hardships  of  march.  But 
pneumonia  kept  step  with  them  as  they  passed  through 
here. 

"As  for  this  poor  land,  its  plight  was  indescribable. 
Prices  began  to  go  up  out  of  all  bounds.  We  were  not 
under  the  marketing  restrictions  that  applied  in  Ger- 
many. The  Junkers  who  could  n't  buy  what  they  needed 
in  their  own  country  soon  discovered  that  the  field  was 
open  on  this  side  of  the  Moselle.  So  they  came  in  here 
and  bid  against  our  own  people  for  the  necessities  of 
life.  I  do  not  excuse  our  tradesmen  for  taking  advantage 
of  those  prices.  When  they  were  getting  fifty  marks  a 
dozen  for  eggs  and  sixty  marks  a  pound  for  butter,  they 
were  taking  those  articles  of  food  out  of  the  home  of 
some  poor  steel-worker  who  could  n't  afford  to  pay  such 
prices  even  on  a  salary  of  five  hundred  marks  a  month. 
And  yet  it  was  natural.  When  there  are  buyers  ready 
to  pay  an  outrageous  price,  there  will  always  be  some  one 
to  sell  to  them. 

"White  flour  got  beyond  all  reach.    I  have  seen  Eisen- 

483 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

kuchen  selling  for  three  marks  each.  And  those  who 
could  afford  to  pay  for  such  a  luxury  as  candy,  paid  as 
high  as  forty  marks  a  demi-kilo  for  it. 

"The  farmers  prospered.  They  had  to  pay  a  devil's 
price  for  sugar  and  a  few  things  such  as  that,  but  they  got 
it  all  back,  out  of  eggs  and  grain.  But  in  the  city  was 
starvation. 

"It  is  always  the  cities  that  feel  such  conditions.  They 
have  no  reserve  and  their  poor  people  are  poorer. 

"Our  youth  went  off  to  the  war, — most  of  it  with 
France,  although  sentiment  was  divided.  The  rest  of 
us  stayed  home  and  tried  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  our 
uninvited  guests.  It  was  a  hardship.  Monsieur.  We 
knew  that  if  Germany  won,  the  doom  of  our  country  as 
an  independent  nation  was  sealed.  We  knew  that  we 
should  become  merely  another  province  under  the  broad 
boots  of  Prussia.  We  prayed  that  the  Allies  might  win. 
But  we  dared  not  say  what  we  thought. 

"Salaries  at  the  iron-mills  were  raised.  Many  a  ton  of 
German  munitions  came  out  of  Luxemburg  ore.  There 
was  much  bitterness  over  it.  You  could  hardly  expect 
a  man  with  a  son  under  the  tricolor  to  feel  enthusiastic 
about  the  increased  wages  of  a  neighbor  who  made  shells 
for  the  seventy-sevens. 

"Our  mode  of  living  approached  savagery  more  closely 
every  day.  The  soap-shortage  was  the  cause  of  keen 
misery.    Like  Germany,  we  soon  began  to  suffer  from  a 

484 


A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

lack  of  fats.  Mathilde,  my  wife,  managed  to  save  up  a 
bit  of  butter  now  and  then  in  spite  of  the  agents  of  our 
government  after  we  had  been  placed  on  a  national 
rationing-basis.  She  made  soap  of  butter  and  wood- 
ashes.    It  was  very  expensive  soap,  but  it  sufficed. 

"Shoes  were  rationed  out  to  us  by  the  pound, — two 
hundred  grams  per  head,  per  family,  per  month.  At  that 
rate  the  women  and  children  of  the  family  would  have  to 
go  nearly  barefooted  so  that  the  workers  could  be  suf- 
ficiently well  shod  for  their  work.  Leather  was  worth  its 
weight  in  German  paper  and  just  about  as  durable. 

"Wool  was  as  scarce  as  leather  and  it  got  to  be  the 
custom  for  our  women  to  ravel  out  their  old  stockings  and 
petticoats  and  knit  new  ones  of  the  yarn.  Our  clothes 
never  seemed  to  wear  out.  We  could  not  afford  to  let 
them  wear  out.  As  a  nation  we  were  becoming  wealthy. 
Whatever  may  be  the  criticism  directed  at  the  ethical 
standards  of  our  tradsmen,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  their 
German  custom  brought  them  riches.  Our  farmers,  who 
concealed  flour  and  dairy  products  from  the  govern- 
mental agents  only  to  turn  over  this  food  to  Prussians, 
were  merely  smugglers.  But  they  were  well  paid.  Our 
steel-workers  were  receiving  more  for  their  work  than 
they  had  ever  dreamed  possible.  And  for  all  that  we 
were  poverty-stricken. 

"Money  becomes  useless  when  it  will  not  buy  neces- 
sities. 

485 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

"In  November,  1918,  there  were  many  rumors  that  the 
war  was  nearing  its  end.  But  where  these  rumors  origi- 
nated we  had  no  idea.  We  knew  that  things  had  been 
going  badly  for  Prussia.  The  thundering  of  the  artillery 
seemed  to  come  from  the  west  instead  of  the  south  and 
ambulances  filled  with  wounded  passed  straight  through 
Arlon  without  stopping.  The  whole  policy  of  the  war 
seemed  to  be  changing.  There  were  big  guns  at  Mont- 
medy.  They  had  been  brought  out  of  the  Argonne 
forest,  crossing  the  river  at  Stenay  on  November  5th. 
The  war  was  moving  back  to  its  old  fields  and  we  won- 
dered what  was  to  become  of  us. 

"Even  though  the  Germans  were  in  retreat,  we  could 
not  realize  how  badly  beaten  they  were.  That  army 
that  had  passed  through  here  in  1914  had  seemed  so 
strong,  so  splendid  I  We  believed  that  this  change  of 
front  was  just  another  Prussian  trick,  that  somewhere 
the  Allies  would  step  into  an  ambush  that  would  end 
the  war. 

"Then  the  roads  were  dim  with  Feldgrau  once  more — 
dirty,  stained  Feldgrau  that  told  the  story  of  the  useless 
struggle  and  the  terrible  retreat.  We  learned  that  his- 
tory was  repeating  itself, — that  fighting  was  in  progress 
before  Sedan,  and  that  the  fate  of  a  million  German 
soldiers  in  Belgium  depended  upon  the  holding  of  the 
Metz-Mezieres  Railroad,  which  at  that  point  came  close 
to  the  Meuse.    Now,  we  figured,  the  Prussian  will  estab- 

486 


A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

lish  his  lines;  we  shall  be  the  headquarters  for  his  reserve 
and  know  the  hell  of  close  contact  with  war.  But  it  was 
not  so.  The  movement  of  troops  continued.  The  men 
were  like  dumb  brutes  from  lack  of  sleep,  but  they 
brightened  when  they  spoke  to  us.  They  laughed  and 
joked  a  little  and  told  us  that  Prussia  was  finished. 
They  actually  laughed,  as  if  the  smashing  of  an  empire 
was  all  part  of  the  fortunes  of  war. 

"They  said  that  the  Americans,  of  whom  we  had  been 
told  there  were  only  a  handful  in  all  France,  had  driven 
them  out  of  the  Argonne. 

"  'The  tanks!  The  tanks!'  they  told  us.  'There  are 
millions  of  them  and  all  the  artillery  in  the  world.  They 
fire  a  dozen  shells  to  our  one,  and  the  seventy-five  does 
not  make  mistakes. 

"  'The  war  will  be  at  your  doors  in  a  day  or  two.  They 
will  knock  down  your  houses,  murder  you  in  your  beds, 
and  carry  off  your  women.  They  are  like  the  wild  men 
of  the  cinema.'  That  is  what  they  told  us.  Monsieur, 
although  of  course  we  knew  then  and  we  know  now  that 
it  was  not  true. 

"On  November  i  ith,  at  noon,  there  came  a  wonderful 
calm.  The  rumble  on  the  west  and  south  ceased  and  our 
windows  rattled  no  more,  after  four  long  years.  Some 
one  in  the  village  had  lifted  the  telephone  at  the  mayor's 
house  just  a  little  and  he  had  heard  that  an  armistice  had 
been  signed.    The  war  was  over.    The  Feldgrau  flowed 

487 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

on  over  the  hills  toward  the  east.  Few  horses  were  with 
the  artillery  now.  In  some  of  the  transportation  units 
the  men  themselves  dragged  their  own  wagons.  They 
were  ashamed  that  Prussian  soldiers  should  be  put  to 
such  work.  Near  Eisch  a  photographer  attempted  to  take 
their  picture  as  they  trudged  along  like  beasts  in  the  har- 
ness.   A  lieutenant  knocked  him  down  with  a  sword. 

"In  a  few  days  we  heard  that  the  Americans  were  com- 
ing to  occupy  Luxemburg  and  the  Rhineland.  We  felt 
pleased  at  that,  because  so  many  of  our  people  have  gone 
to  America.  And  we  were  anxious  to  see  these  men  who 
had  driven  the  Prussians  out  of  the  Argonne. 

"Herr  Wagner  and  I  went  down  to  the  frontier  near 
Arlon  on  November  20th.  But  we  saw  no  Americans. 
We  came  home  that  evening  and  found  the  infantry  of 
the  First  American  Division  scattered  all  over  our  hills. 
The  next  day  there  was  a  formal  entry  into  Luxemburg 
city, — a  gala  occasion  on  which  all  the  city  turned  out  to 
welcome  them.  And  after  that  they  became  a  part  of  our 
lives. 

"In  spite  of  ourselves  we  had  been  picturing  the  Ameri- 
cans as  somewhat  like  the  cow-boys  of  the  American 
cinemas.  It  was  a  surprise  to  us  to  see  them  as  they  were. 
For  the  most  part  they  were  boys  who  looked  very  tired. 
Those  that  we  saw  first  seemed  to  be  a  little  bit  more 
ragged  than  the  retreating  Germans.  And  they  were 
friendly.    It  was  surprising  to  think  that  less  than  two 

488 


aT^mous  victory 

weeks  ago  they  had  been  cutting  a  path  through  human 
flesh  in  the  Argonne. 

"At  first  I  was  a  bit  doubtful  of  them;  they  were  so 
utterly  unlike  what  I  had  been  led  to  believe  a  conquer- 
ing army  would  be. 

"One  evening  little  Gretchen  Weinkoop,  whose  sweet- 
heart was  a  machine-gunner  in  the  German  Army,  began 
to  sing  'Die  Wacht  am  Rhine.'  Oh,  Monsieur,  how  I 
was  afraid  I  Had  one  sung  the  Marseillaise  when  the 
Prussians  occupied  the  duchy  he  would  have  been  shot. 
But  the  Americans  I  There  never  shall  be  any  under- 
standing them.  A  big  sergeant  joined  in  the  chorus, 
mimicking  her,  and  all  the  others  laughed.  Gretchen 
blushed  and  went  to  her  room. 

"We  miss  the  Americans  here.  They  cleaned  up  a  lot 
of  spots  about  the  town  and  kept  things  in  repair.  We 
who  live  here  are  apt  to  forget  that  our  houses  some- 
times wear  out.  The  children  loved  them  and  wept 
when  they  went  away." 

Old  Kaspar  paused.  From  the  mist  in  his  eyes  it 
appeared  that  he,  as  well  as  the  children,  might  have 
wept  when  the  Americans  went  away.  A  kindly  old 
man,  he  was,  and  I  could  easily  believe  him  when  he  said  : 

"The  American  boys  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of  me." 

Any  one  would  have  been  fond  of  him. 

His  name  is  not  really  "Old  Kaspar."     It  is  John 

489 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

Muller.  He  is  a  citizen  of  high  standing  in  Keispelt 
and  a  member  of  the  fire-department,  but  not  generally 
rated  high  as  a  military  expert. 

And  yet  through  the  simple  resignation  that  governed 
his  tone  throughout  his  story  of  those  four  dread  years  I 
realized,  as  never  before,  the  futility  of  war.  As  he 
spoke  I  seemed  to  see  the  picture  of  Peterkin  and  Wil- 
helmine  looking  at  the  skull  that  they  had  found  upon 
the  field  of  Blenheim  and  unconsciously  I  repeated  to 
Old  Kaspar  little  Peterkin's  query: 

"What  good  came  of  it  at  lastT' 

He  straightened  suddenly. 

"I  should  like  to  know  that  myself,"  he  declared. 
''Prussia  tore  Christ  down  from  His  cross  and  drowned 
Him  in  blood.  And  for  what'?  For  whose  profit?  Cer- 
tainly not  her  own:  the  allied  troops  are  seizing  her 
cities  to  force  her  to  pay  an  indemnity  that  will  not  begin 
to  compensate  for  the  war.  Certainly  not  France's: 
France  gets  a  little  territory  and  a  few  pennies  of  recom- 
pense at  the  price  of  her  very  soul.  Certainly  not  Eng- 
land's: England  is  half  starved  and  miserable  and 
strangled  by  debt  and  the  memory  of  her  dead  sons. 
Austria  is  a  rotting  corpse.  The  Balkans  are  a  volcano. 
Russia  is  a  hell. 

"Kaiser  Wilhelm  said  to  his  troops:  'We  are  the  salt 
of  the  earth.'  At  the  time  he  said  it  Belgium  was  a 
Sahara.    Mon  Dieu!  what  mockery  I 

490 


A  FAMOUS  VICTORY 

"What  good  came  of  it  at  last*?    Ah  ouil  what  good? 

"What  of  us?  We  are  French  now.  We  have  been 
French  before,  just  as  we  have  been  German,  Belgian, 
and  Spanish.  What  is  to  become  of  us  ?  Only  the  good 
God  knows. 

"This  war  has  ended  only  as  a  furnace  fire  dies  down 
when  the  embers  are  banked  to  flare  up  again  in  the 
morning.  There  will  be  new  wars.  And  our  neutrality 
will  mean  no  more  in  the  wars  to  come  than  it  meant  in 
this  last  one.  Always,  Monsieur,  we  have  been  a 
slaughter-house  for  nations  with  grievances;  and  I  sup- 
pose it  must  always  be  so.  But  when  I  hear  my  children 
at  play  in  my  kitchen  I  am  glad  that  I  cannot  look  into 
the  future." 


491 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 


Phantom  Counselors 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war. 
— Coleridge. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 

WERE  I   "Old  Kaspar"   I  know  that  I,   too, 
should    hesitate    to    think    of    Luxemburg's 
future.    What  it  is  likely  to  be,  is  pictured 
too  vividly  in  its  past. 

But  I  went  away  from  the  duchy  with  that  message  of 
his  echoing  in  my  mind.  The  grim  foreboding  of  it  has 
never  left  me.  Luxemburg  has  always  had  a  part  to  play 
in  the  world's  affairs  and  will  again,  and  I  cannot  but 
think  that  its  people  have  earned  the  right  to  the  fruits 
of  peace  which  they  probably  never  will  learn  to  enjoy. 

Its  people,  who  have  gone  quietly  to  work,  are  adjust- 
ing themselves  to  their  new  environment.  The  peasants 
are  pursuing  their  unchanging  routine  in  the  fields,  the 
artisans  are  manufacturing  "three-decked"  stoves  and 
plows  where  once  they  turned  shells  for  the  seventy- 
sevens.  The  capital  is  struggling  to  shake  off  the  in- 
fluence of  Berlin  that  made  its  cafes  notorious. 

"We  would  remain  just  as  we  are,"  is  once  more  the 
typification  of  the  national  spirit  as  well  as  the  national 
hymn.  And  if  inbred  fortitude  amounts  to  anything, 
as  the  Luxemburgers  are  they  probably  will  remain. 

495 


THE  LAND  OF  HAUNTED  CASTLES 

The  ghosts  of  the  ancients  sit  in  the  councils  of  thei 
descendants.  The  spectral  guardians  of  the  illustriou 
county  gather  in  the  ruins  of  Esch-le-Trou.  The  Ten 
plars  watch  from  the  heights  of  Fels.  And  Melusin 
stands  sentry  upon  the  rock  of  Siegfroid. 


THE  END 


496 


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